WASHINGTON, July 6, 1998 -- News item: Movie and television star Roy Rogers, the so-called "King of the Cowboys," died today. He was 86.
In honor of Rogers and all the other singing cowboys, I offer a city boy's tribute in verse:
My Cowboys Have Always Been Singers
My cowboys have always been singers,
totin' guitars and not forty-fours,
and they'd never demand sarsaparilla
as they strode through those carved, swinging doors.
They'd more likely ride on the airwaves
than on stallions with saddles that shine,
and they seem to talk more about women
than cactus or sagebrush and pine.
They sing about ramblin', gamblin' and sin,
and moan about troubles in mind,
but whenever I'm caught in their long-playing spin,
I know that I'm one of their kind.
I don't wear a Stetson or spurs on my boots,
and I don't favor riding a horse,
but give me a girl in a honky-tonk bar,
and I'll sing her a sad song, of course.
If I seem an urbane contradiction,
mixing cowboys and hot city streets,
just remember, Roy Rogers and Trigger
came to life in old theater seats.
They sing about drinkin', thinkin' and sin,
and moan about troubles in mind,
and whenever I'm caught in their long-playing spin,
I know that I'm one of their kind.
I've never been west of New Jersey.
I can't rope and never roll smokes.
I'm known to sip vodka and whiskey
and in turn relate off-color jokes.
But when I'm alone in my pondering,
two friends seem to always belong:
One is my champion, Jesus,
and the other's a cowboy in song.
They sing about playin', prayin' and sin,
and moan about troubles in mind.
But whenever I'm caught in their long-playing spin,
I know that I'm one of their kind.
Allan R. Andrews is a news editor in Washington, D.C., a freelance writer and a closet singing cowboy. He can be contacted at allan.andrews@reporters.net
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