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The High-Heeled Boots

He stands upon the city street, keen-eyed, and brown of face,
He seems to bring a breath of air from some broad prairie space;
He’s perched upon a pair of heels that fit the stirrup’s curve,
That meet the bucking bronco’s plunge and counteract each swerve;
And of all the chaps with whom the gods are ever in cahoots
Give me the cattle-puncher in the high-heeled boots.

He brings a hint of wider skies, of ranges that are vast,
Of manful vigils in the days when sweeps the wintry blast;
All out of step with things in town, he sees the crowd surge by;
The sage is in his nostrils still — he hears the gaunt wolf cry;
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5/8/2021 12:16:15 PM # 1.0.0.577