This was written on a Winter night after Mr. O'Malley had been parted from $2 by a fellow with a long spiel. He says that at that time there were many "summer hands" or "mail order cowboys" They were only good enough to fill in as herders or extras during roundup time, but when they told it around the stove in Winter they were all "top hands". The poem appeared in the Stock Growers' Journal on December 23, 1893. It was signed Iyam B. Usted.
I am a busted cowboy
And I work upon the range;
In Summer time I get some work
But one thing that is strange,
As soon as Fall wrok's over
We get it in the neck
And we get a Christmas present
On a neatly written check.
Then come to town to rusticate,
We've no place else to stay
When Winter winds are howling,
Because we can't eat hay.
A puncher's life's a picnic;
It is one continued joke,
But there's none more anxious to see Spring
Than a cowboy who is broke.
The wages that a cowboy earns
In Summer go like smoke,
And when the Winter snows have come
You bet your life he's broke.
You can talk about your holiday,
Your Christmas cheer and joy;
It's all the same to me, my friend,
Cash gone-I'm a broke cowboy.
My saddle and my gun's in soak,
My spurs I've long since sold;
My rawhide and my, quirt are gone;
My chaps-no, they're too old;
My stuff's all gone, I can't even beg
A solitary smoke,
For no one cares what becomes of
A cowboy who is broke.
Now, where I'll eat my dinner
This Christmas, I don't know;
But you bet I'm goinz to have one
If they give me half a show.
This Christmas has no charms for me,
On good thing's I'll not choke,
Unless I get a big hand-out
I'm a cowboy who is broke.