He rides amid gray fabric canyons
In the cubicles of his mind—
Just provin' himself an office hand
Among the others of his kind.
His plains are far as he can stretch arms
And touch each side with fingertips—
His range is that brand new cubicle,
With that he has to come to grips.
He's just herdin' that old computer
In the open range of his brain—
Without all those old-time western dreams
He surely would wind up insane.
His cubicle's all full of posters
Of old silver screen cowboy stars—
Western memorabilia and more,
That keep him away from booze and bars.
They say he's a cubicle cowboy
And they may be 'bout half way right—
Because in his mind he's a cowboy
Till he rides away in the night.
Originally Posted On Site: 2009-10-15 14:18:03
Last Login: 03.02.10
Visits as of 12-12-07: 247
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