© Micheal Whitaker
Author: Micheal Whitaker/Bonifacio (B0die) Dominguez
Micheal Whitaker

Mexican boots, a filthy black hat
And his pants are soiled and worn.
His face is dark as coral black
And he stands on the ground he was born.

He stumbles and rambles to passersby
and is lost in a time he once lived.
He drinks from his bottle, wonders why
and thinks what the future might give.

He looks to the burnt hills above him
And he thinks of the days he once rode.
Cattle, dust and the sun he would cuss,
These small thoughts fill what’s left of his soul.

The ships and the sea and the warm summer’s breeze
Is a direction he never would go.
He worked in a place of the rocks and Saguaro;
it is the land this Vaquero would know.

The waves wash his face and the moon takes its place
And his bottle floats out to sea.
No one will care about this lost Vaquero
Or the time in his mind he should be.

The boats go to fish through the cool morning mist
And the new sun fills up the sky.
The gringos fill the town and the shops all around
And not one soul will wonder or sigh.

He lives in the burnt hills above me
And I think of the days that he rode.
The cattle and dust and the sun he does cuss
And the days that fills up his soul.