That Rope A Goat Suburbanite Cowboy. Poem by Michael Gale

Rope a goat, rope a goat...
Go without dope, cause i gotta use my lasso rope.
Just ran clean out of my much supplied supply of soap...
Grasping this fact is hard on my brain to fathom this scope.
Some call me a suburban cowboy...
From wearin' boots, i'm smelly in a big city is my own way of life,
that makes me sapply happy.
Muh boots make clunking sounds upon the concrete trails of the big city.
Country boogey music playin' on my pick-up truck's radio, every day of the week...
This goat ropin' music on my truck's radio dial is what i seek, so to speak.
The Sun sets upon my truck's painted reflectioned side, while travelin' many a mile...
A suburban cowboy wears blue jeans and boots.
Country bars play music on the jukebox that makes my boots scoot across the sawdusted bar's floor...
I am unkindly sometimes known as a city cowby, We are like boys who have not ever owned or ridden a horse.
We are wanna be cowboys and this secret lies silently dorment, and
unspokenly behind our closet's darkened unopened door of safety...
Just hand me that rope to rope my goat and ride that bar's mechanical bull.
'Hi-yo silver! ' i shout in that country and western bar, as music plays on the jukebox...
Those Hick-Em'-Up tunes make me feel completely free and safe, as
a Karoky singer's voice disguised behind loud songs and words printed upon a tv screen.
City Cowboy, (what a name?) that's mean! , i mean.