Well the cowboy, like the red man, you had to leave your land
You can't raise your stock and plant your crop in the gumbo and the sand
Greed disguised as progress has put us to the test
They won't be glad until we're gone from our home out in the west
It's sad to see those good old days replaced with greed and doubt
Soon we'll leave the country, the campfire has gone out
Bid 'em all adieu, you can't turn the world about
The cowboy left the country, the campfire has gone out

I have now waved goodbye to the chipped mug of capless and corporate-logoed biros and rollerballs on my desk, and in their place the Cross resides alone, a writing weapon to be taken seriously, a latter-day Excalibur (though mightier, obviously, because it's a pen) that I shall wield daily in my tireless quest for legible, joined-up truth.