by Paul Harwitz
I was between jobs and money was getting real tight,
So until I found work aa new ranch, I took a job at night.
Things had gotten so bad, I’d even begun thinking about selling my saddle,
And you know for a cowboy to do that, it just ain’t right.
They said it was some kind of telephone service.
“Well, Mister,” I said to the phone-room foreman,
“I gotta confess, my voice twangs and drawls and like that.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, “you’ll be a winner the first time at bat.”
“What exactly are we selling?” I inquired.
“The job agency didn’t tell me quite what.”
“Cowboy,” he answered, “what we’re selling is you,
And in this room, every single other buckaroo.”
“What?” I demanded. “You mean I’m gonna be
Some kind of cowpoke gigalo? Like some kind of outcall?”
I thought to myself, if the women are good-looking,
This might not be bad work at all.
“No,” he said. “It’s in-call. These East Coast women
Are tired of the Yuppie men in whose circles they’re swimmin’.
They pay to call a real, live cowboy,
And I’ll tell you, it’s a hell of a marketing ploy.”
“We don’t have to talk dirty or nothing, do we?”
“No,” he said, “keep it clean.”
“That’s good,” I said, “’cause I don’t want to talk mean
To womenfolk. If I did that, I’d be morally broke.”
“Look over these sample scripts,” he said.
“By the time you cowboys have these all read,
You’re usually ready to wing-it and ad-lib,
‘Cause at romantic ranch-hand dialogue, you’re all so glib.”
Soon, I took my first call.
“1-900-A-Cowboy,” I answered, in my most appealing drawl.
“Are you a real cowboy?” she asked.
“Ma’am,” I replied, “I’m as real as an exciting bronc ride.
“I’m so real, that I hanker and pine,
For female companionship that’s oh-so-fine.
I can tell you’re a lady of impeccable taste.
For you to lavish affection on a lonely cowpoke like me would be a waste.”
“Oh, no,” she said, “you’re more attractive to me,
Than all these pretty-boy actors on prime-time TV.”
“Well, ma’am, that certainly warms this old range-hand’s heart.”
“Tell me,” she asked, “how does your day start?”
“This morning,” I answered, “I rolled out of my bunk well before sunrise.
In fact, some of the stars were still in the skies.
I grabbed a quick breakfast from the spread’s Cook,
And then out for strays I rode to look.”
I told them gals stories. Some were made-up.
Some were true.
But when I got done talking with them,
There wasn’t one of them that was blue.
Now, some men will call up women who’ll talk to them nasty.
But ladies want to hear a man talk to them nice and polite,
So they can have wholesome romantic fantasies in dreams at night.
Women know that cowhands’ll be alluring instead of uptight.
Isn’t it amazing that what an East Coast man thinks sounds “hick”
Makes a lovely, lonely lady’s pulse race real quick?
If those Eastern dudes didn’t spend all their time chasing the
dollar,
Those lonely ladies wouldn’t have to give “1-900-A-Cowboy” a holler.