Behind the eyes of this Bad Bucking Bronco awaits a slim barrelful of ready frosted tears, young and bursting with the promise of a swift deliverance. And if my firearm talk is lacking, it’s only ’cause I never did own a piece or intend to know the parts that make it. Sure enough I find those who do rather dorky and fundamentally asleep.
Quiet the chatter, you startled straw hatter. I only mean I’d like to tell you what I’m feeling, and that I’m too terrible a shot to be a real cowboy, silly.
So, you darken my doorway, you curious cat. Do wander inside, where inside may find you, and take what is yours that I, alone, cannot keep.
I’ll get the tea goin’.
Cowboy Problems 