A Western Suicide

Look around, there is nothing here for you dilapidated cowboy, your boots are caked with cow shit, and the dip in your lip makes your breath smell the same as your soles. You don't farm, you don't produce, you have a big truck you can't drive, and you are as on point as your pointless bumper sticker.

You act tough and drink hard, so hard you kiss your toilet at the end of the night, and hug it in the same pathetic manner you hug your opponent to the ground. Go spend some more money cowboy, get those new boots, get the designer jeans all of the urban cowgirls like to much, as they sing terrible songs by men as feminine as they and sway back and forth like denim dipshits with developmental retardation, cackling and laughing at red faces that pray for them to take a wrong turn into a ditch.

Go on and rant about freedom cowboy, talk about the niggers and the fags, in soliloquies of Jack Daniels and dur-d-durs, because God knows driving a forklift horse is so difficult, only a white man can pull it off. Go on cowboy, get-R-done, tell hunting tales to city kids who had guns and knives pulled on them by real animals, convince them how soft they are, how rugged you are cowboy. Get a new tat about it and flex it off in public, tanned in December, because real men act like superficial women.

How's the cattle in Columbus? Or the corn around the corner? Did you till it, did you bail it? I'm sure you did, and I'm sure the free housing and everything else momma and pop give you along with the $200 dollars under the table is a flat rate for all real farmers. Go on cowboy, ride your bicycle, I mean motorcycle, because every hard ass has a leather jacket and 25 grand between their legs.

We've all tried to understand you cowboy, you are as American as they come, as American as American cheese or cellophane, microwaves and cheap plastic imports. Bright lights and mud wrestling, tent cities and coolers in open fields, caked in shit. Just like a stable aren't you cowboy?

Drink up cowboy, because the cowgirls love a man who can piss himself in public then run his lip to a stranger, laughing through rotted teeth and dull wit, always ready to fight and even more ready to be held back. Size is scary, bigger is better, just like the truck, with a bed full of cow shit, parked in two spots when it isn't driving in two lanes or hitting curbs when it turns. Here's a loaded revolver cowboy, do the one trick, where you spin it around back and forth, as the barrel points inward to your face and gut over and over, take another shot like a real cowboy, bottle of whiskey in one hand and hand cannon in the other. We're all waiting to see.