And the bawlin' of the cattle

Is a-coming' down the wind

Then a finer life than ridin'

Would be mighty hard to find.

Just a-ridin, a-ridin'—

Splittin' long cracks through the air,

Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,

Rippin' up the prickly pear

As I'm ridin'.

I don't need no art exhibits