When I was but a small boy, my father bought me many books
'Bout the creatures of the river banks and the sins of old DEA crooks.
But the ones I never left behind with the old forgotten games
Were the tales of wild and windy slopes by the man they call Will James.

The living of the cowboy dreams, or so it seemed to me,
The perfect combination of riding high and being free,
His heroes were his horses, and he drew them clear and true.
On every page they'd come alive and jump straight out at you.

CHORUS: His race towards the sunset was the high and lonesome kind.
Like a coyote always looking back, he left no tracks behind.
So I've memorized these pictures, boys. They're still the very best.
If whiskey was his mistress, his true love was the west.

I remember up on Dead Man Creek, back twenty years or more,
I hired on to breaking colts, which I'd never done before.
A city kid, I asked myself, "Now what would Will James do?"
And you know, it was the damnedest thing, but it kind of got me through.

Repeat chorus

Thar she be, partner.