Cigarette smoking and old guitar, canteen full of whiskey, campfire underneath the stars,
Lonesome voices singing, a song about the good old days, riding across the open range,
A song that’s gonna fill the sky, till the last cowboy dies.
He hears whispers in the wind, goes his own wherever a fan’s
some fold and men fall, there’s
Man that line between what’s the last
wild, run, let him
Carry on, way, never down, fade away.
Saddle he lays, his head the
cowboy’s dreams a heavy most don’t it,
It ropes boot him on days, it’s way be
cowboy dies.