He rides a feed lot and clerks in a market
On weekends selling tobacco and beer
His days're spent surrounded by fences
But he'll dream tonight of when fences weren't here.

The Old Chisholm Trail is covered by concrete
They truck 'em to market in fifty foot rigs
They blow by his market never slowing to reason
Like living and dying was all he did.

This is the last cowboy song
The end of a hundred year waltz
The music is sad as they're singing along
Another piece of America's lost.

This is the last cowboy song
The end of a hundred year waltz
The music is sad as they're singing along
Another piece of America's lost.

This is the last cowboy song...

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