When he stepped down from the train,
He wore a great, tall Stetson hat.
But, he was dressed in tired clothes;
A sorry sight to look at.
But, on his shoulder was a treasure.
Something he kept clean and dressed.
A saddle of the finest leather
Which he gently caressed.
He knew how he appeared;
His clothes all shabby, torn.
But, his saddle was his pleasure.
To it, he seemed born.
This was no ordinary man.
Back in his day, he was a champ.
He had been tops in rodeos.
But, now he shared a dry camp.
Alone, his saddle for a partner,
No clean clothes or horse to ride.
No place to sleep the weary nights,
No longer could he hide.
The fact was that he was no star
Although he may once have been.
Now, he had only memories
Of rodeos he rode back when.
Back when, they all had cheered him.
He could outride the best.
Then, somehow, his spirit broke
And he was passed by all the rest.
At night, he dreamed great memories,
Reaching back quite far.
His head pillowed on that saddle,
He dream he was once again a star.
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