All this time I been thinkin' that cowboys were real
All those wide open spaces and every bit of dust, I can feel it
But I've been reading history, and you see
There's a certain fiction about it
The cowboy ridin' the range with his lasso and spurs
Ropin' all them doggies and retirin' when the moon hits the sky
You know that rugged look that's in his eyes?
Most of what you see is a lie
Just a little romanticized
'Cause there was no home on the range
The cowboys were mostly a miserable lot
Their bosses were mean and they worked cold or hot
The only freedom they probably knew
Was the freedom to curse at the longhorns beneath skies of
Blue, blue, endlessly blue
The work of a cowboy was never quite through
Paid a mere pittance, he died on the trail
Where his spirit rose up
Finally freed from his prairie travail
You know that Karl Marx's daughter was real smart
And she wouldn't lie
And when she traveled to America
She looked at all the workingmen's lives
And so she came upon our great Prairies, and you see,
She found a certain fiction about it
She saw poor proletarians, ridin' on the range for 24 hours a day
Just to fatten up the cattle for the big rich ranchers
Who refused to even buy them their spurs
Oh how she wished that they could organize!
But union cowboys wouldn't be hired
They gave their lives or else they were fired
'Cause there was no home on the range
Mike Bacile - acoustic bass; Tom Hassett - real drums; Jeff Massanari - electric guitar; Ned Selfe - pedal steel guitar; Diesel Cats - acoustic guitar.
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