THE MARLBORO MAN
There is no longer
a wild wild West to tame
or outlaws or Red Indians
to join in the old macho game
Of the testing of his manhood
and the building of his fame
And yet he retains the rugged look
of a steel-eyed firebrand
that can only be seen in the fearless few
who daily face death at every hand
Though now his risks are reduced
to trippin on the scenery
where he rides for a phony brand
And that cigarette in his hand
MANIWAKI MOON
Through the sacred fire at the sacred lake
by the tree twice lightning struck
sacred tobacco and sacred cedar
burned in a sacred way
We circle and leave by the Eastern door
THE COPENHAGEN KID
I didn’t kill a b’ar when I was only three
but I did start to chew before I was two
They say Copenhagen cowboys have a tendency to lie a bit
usually it’s how young they started and how far they can spit
Now I ain’t got many silver buckles to brag about
but this is for sure and without a doubt
I’ve got the record when it comes to snuff
for the earliest, and shortest, addiction to the stuff
Now my memory’s a little foggy but the legend’s quite clear
that somewhere between my first and second year
My daddy leaned over the crib to kiss me goodnight
with the can in his pocket not sittin’ too tight
It seems from the beginning that I sure liked the stuff
and, in no time at all, ate that whole box of snuff
Legend doesn’t tell my exact shades of green
but I hear there were some that had never been seen
Though out behind barns and sometimes in bars
I’ve tried cigarettes and pipes and a few good cigars
Still when folks pull out that old round can of thar’s
all my colour comes back and they think I’m from Mars