Cowboys are driving pickup trucks
now.
Open range is a rare stretch of
road in Colorado
marked with a square yellow sign.
Round up comes in a bottle;
you spray it on weeds to make them
die.
Barbed wire has gone to the
prisons,
holding millions of men who’ve
forgotten to play the harmonica.
The Sheriff has blue lights now,
and you don’t want him behind you.
The Indians got some land back,
pulling quarters from slot machines,
still waiting to hear us say we’re
sorry.
And the cowboys pass by in their
pickup trucks
listening to Johnny Cash,
and Johnny Cash has passed away.
But it’s still America,
with long desert roads and the
desire to drive fast.
But it’s still America,
with bacon and eggs for
breakfast and any other time of the day we damn well please.
The Four Corners is a National
Monument
with a fence and a gate, and the
sign says it closes at five.
Tumbleweed tumbles across the
interstate,
tumbling with litter and cigarette
butts,
bouncing against the guardrail;
it must have missed its exit.
The guitar pickers sit on the
sidewalks in Nashville
pulling quarters from tourists,
can’t even sell themselves to
Satan at the crossroads
like Robert Johnson did.
The Pueblo ruins must look magic
in the sunset
but there’s a gate and a sign
saying the National Park closes at five.
World war vets in Buicks hold up
the pickup trucks on the interstate,
thinking it’s been a long while
since Robert Johnson passed away.
But it’s still America,
with plenty of milk and steak from
the cows on the ranches.
But it’s still America,
where Hollywood helps remember the
cowboys on horses.
But it’s still America,
with long desert roads and the
desire to drive fast.
You’ve got to get there early,
because it’s too late.
Besides the Supercenters and the
casinos,
America’s frontier closes at five.
But it’s still America,
and there’s still gold in them thar hills.