If dreams were reality,
I wouldn't be here, sitting my horse with a hand on my gun,
Watching the yellow dust swirl,
Dust on dust,
Swirl across the bare plain and into infinity.

The sun beats down hot on my back,
But it ain't the heat
Nor my threadbare shirt stiff with sweat
Sticking to my back,
Nor my ankles chafing against my hard boots.

Vaqueros, they said, those cowboys
With their ten-gallon hats
Sitting their horses fifteen hands high
But really a million feet, higher than the clouds
With their méxicano saddles and their shiny guns.

If dreams were reality,
I'd not have lost sixteen head to the wolves last night
Nor have to trek three days without water
In this parched, barren land
And the sunlight like fire.

My horse plods on
With the herd before us,
Horned heads bobbing slowly, in silent resignation,
Bony flanks heavy with dirt and dust,
Tongues panting for water.

All men dream,
But I know dreams from reality.
So I ride the trail, sitting my horse,
With one hand on the pommel
And the other on my gun.