The cowboy has always been a dying breed
But he takes his dying slowly, perched upon his steed.
A prairie is his prison, his church, his wife.
You take away his sky, you take away his life.
Yet where does he go when the range is all closed?
Does he retire to his bunkhouse, in depressed repose?
No, he climbs back in that saddle, if just to bide his time,
For the cowboy knows a good death is hard to find.
"We don’t have problems in Russia, we have adventures."