Picture yourself sitting on the banks of the beautiful north country of the Río Grande: crisp mountain air, cold Lone Stars in the cooler, the perfect fly on your line.
A skull grins beneath an ‘ol Stetson brim, Flames lick his helmet blue, defying death's whim, With hollow eyes he stares, a cowboy to the bone, Ridin' through eternity.
As I walked out in the streets of L.A., As I walked out in L.A. one day, I saw a young cowboy, wearing a cowboy hat
Wearing a cowboy hat, with no cattle he strayed.
