I am the Boss, Ain't I?

I'm not a guy who's bossed around, like liv'ry boys or doormen.

The ranch hands all look up to me, because I am the foreman.

So here I am, accustomed to a place of leadership.

I've learned to say it like it is and shoot straight from the hip.

So, when I'm diggin' fencepost holes and one puts up a fight,

I merely change its attitude by usin' dynamite.

And, for unruly horses, I've come up with this invention:

I brandish my ol' forty-five and that gets their attention.

But when I order cows to stop those piles that theyre makin',

they're not the least bit scared of me--not tremblin' or a-shakin'.

I've learnt to grin and bear it, 'cause I can't control their crappin's;

So I accept what I can't change---the fact manure just happens!

And so, I rarely bellyache, 'cause ranchin' is my life.

I only gripe for Debra's sake, 'cause she's my darlin' wife.

Why, ev'ry time she goes outside, them cowpies mess her shoes.

(It's been a woe she can't abide--she's took t' drinkin' booze.)

I've tried to figure out a way to keep them cowpies in.

My ingenuity don't pay; My temper's growin' thin.

I had a brainstorm, tried it out. It didn't do the trick.

Those diapers, slung and tied about, were gone with that first kick.

I rigged some propane heaters up to gassify that stuff.

Now, that worked purdy well, although the end-result was rough:

The government complained 'cause planes that flew through that brown smoke

got ruined by the smelly stains, which grossed the trav'lin' folk.

I tried to get my cows to feed on mints and cotton candy,

and asked them, when they felt the need, to use the potty handy.

But diff'rent foods were not the fix; It made them cowpies sticky;

And, though our crapper's fine for hicks, them cows were too darned picky.

Well, Debra tired of my flops, and I was at a loss.

(A cowpie falls just where it plops, 'cause cows don't have a boss.)

Our wise friend Rex suggested, "Time to wipe away that frown;

Just thank the Lord beef price is up, and that the chips are down!