Epic Poem: Ramblin' Bag
O’er yonder in, ‘merica’s distant lands,
He rode, The Cowbag Douche,
No horse nor gun nor country boots by his bedpost,
His tribal tatt his only marker.
She slid beside his barstool and said “Hello stranger.”
But he was a loner Dottie, a rebel.
And The Cowbag Douche could only keep on amblin’,
Like an early Spielberg film.
O’er hills he did ride,
And by ride I mean taxi,
And by hills I mean clubs.
Hopin’ to find a place to lay his hat beside a hottie who bought his shtick and dug his tatt,
And every so often, pouty blondes would hitch up to that bedpost,
for a night or two.
And admire his masculine bracelet,
and constant need to point to his own hat to demonstrate that he was a Ramblin’ Bag.
In case you hadn’t noticed.
As sun broke o’er corn fields,
And water trickled over rocks,
On a train bound for nowhere,
The Cowbag Douches,
The Ramblin’ Bag rambles on.
