GARY ROBERTSON: Home
I don’t get to town real often,
But every time I do,
When I finish runnin’ errands
Well, I like to have a brew.
There’s this little bar I go to
That kinda caters to us Hands.
It don’t have no Line Dance competitions
‘r, Battles Of The Bands.
It’s just got this “stand-up” bar fer drinkin’
Don’t have a single stool.
‘N you can’t spit upon the floor,
But that’s their only rule.
They’ve got a few small tables
Back there in the rear,
‘N they’re known fer fair priced whisky
‘N damn-near frozen beer.
Now if you wander to the restroom
It’s plain enough to see
They haven’t had a health check there
Since nineteen ‘n seventy three.
No, it ain’t what you’d call trendy
There’s saw dust on the floor
‘N it’s the taxidermy on the walls
That passes fer decor.
Now all this is so you’ll understand
Why I was shocked to see
The last time that I went in there
The only Cowboy there was me.
When I pulled into that gravel lot,
There was Mountain Bikes galore.
There must have been fifty of-em
Right outside the door.
Well Lordy, what a fool I was
I parked ‘n went inside,
‘N when I saw that new clientele
I near broke down ‘n cried.
But I went back to the corner
Ordered up a beer.
I figgered I’d just have me one,
Might as well, since I was here.
Folks, I had barely just tipped up my glass,
I mean, taken my first taste.
When this little feller in skin-tight shorts
Comes ‘n jumps up in my face.
He says, “If you’re a Cowboy,
Mister where’s your horse?”
But I remained a gentleman,
In consideration of the source.
I shook my head, ‘n bit my lip
Went back to my brew
While “Biker Shorts” ‘n his goofy friends
Shared a laugh ‘r two.
I just finished up, paid my tab,
Was headed fer the door
When here comes Mister Biker Shorts
A staggerin’ ‘cross the floor.
He says, “This town ain’t big enough
Fer both of us, you see
So catch the next stage out-a town,
Or you’ll be answerin’ to me.”
Folks, I just went out to my pick up
It’s an IH, ‘68
It’s a one ton dually
Part mud, part rust, ‘n part paint.
I took the lariat from the rifle-rack
Shook out a nice big loop
‘N pitched this pretty Hoolihan
‘Round all them bikes there in a group.
Three wraps ‘n a hooie
Around the trailer hitch
Then I slipped her into granny gear
‘N took aim at the ditch.
But you know I couldn’t do it
To run that ditch, it just weren’t right,
So I pulled out on the Interstate,
‘N damn, them sparks made a pretty sight.
Now, there’s several things I learned that day,
Bike parts make a quite distinctive trail,
The food ain’t really all that bad
In the Ventura County Jail.
‘N one last thing, ‘n this here’s truth
I swear this ain’t no rumor
Judges who ride mountain bikes,
They ain’t got no sense of humor.
See Ya , Down The Trail,