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She was just a little button,
the day her mother died,
and Whiskey Pete, the cowboy,
grit his teeth but never cried.
He just stood there at the grave side,
red-eyed with whiskey breath,
tryin' to figure what to do;
couldn't face the pain of death.
Next day he stumbled from his bed
in an alcoholic haze,
facing the reality
that he had a child to raise.
With no words, he fixed her breakfast,
cleaned the house up by-and-by,
read stories to his daughter;
still the cowboy didn't cry.
He was "Whiskey Pete the Cowboy,"
he'd been called that since his youth,
he'd earned the name they called him,
if you really want the truth.
But he'd won the heart of someone;
someone decent, full of life.
And tho' she knew his failings
she had still become his wife.
And he loved her with a passion
that he couldn't hold inside,
and with the baby's coming
he was all filled up with pride.
But he'd never stopped his drinkin',
he was "Whiskey Pete," ya' see,
he's cowboy rough and ready
and he's cowboy tough and free.
But that evening found him silent,
thinking through the life ahead,
the job she'd left unfinished
and the things his wife had said.
So next day he dressed his daughter,
fixed her breakfast, combed her hair,
took her with him out to work
ridin' on a gentle mare.
They fed cattle in the winter,
checked on cows when calves were due,
greased windmills in the spring time
while the months and seasons flew.
They learned to cook together!
even learned to sew a bit,
while altering tack and clothing
so they'd get better fit.
He's still Whiskey Pete the cowboy,
tho' he didn't drink at all,
now he's always "Mister Mom"
4H, church and basketball.
Oh! they laughed a lot together,
but he sometimes dried her tears,
and they kept ridin' side by side
as the months turned into years.
He was rough and he was ready
and the girl rode by his side,
but every bit a lady
with her daddy there to guide.
He would help her with her homework,
wash her cloths or braid her hair,
answer questions 'bout her life;
always dealin' on the square.
They sat their cap for Whiskey Pete,
but no girl could find his heart,
he was raisin' up a daughter ....
and were seldom far apart.
He often thought about his wife,
as he watched the evening sky,
and often felt her presence.
Still the cowboy didn't cry.
Then like a fairy tale he came,
tho' he'd been there all her life.
A rancher's son, a cowboy,
she became a rancher's wife.
This young girl was now a woman
with no flaw that you could see;
a tribute to her mother;
you could trust his guarantee.
Wedding bells were softly ringing,
as he walked her down the aisle,
and Whisky Pete the cowboy
was decked out in his best smile.
Then he gave her hand in marriage
as the cowboy pledged his love
and knew the match was perfect;
like arrangements made above.
The child was on her honeymoon,
the house all quiet again,
and Whiskey Pete the cowboy
felt that old familiar pain.
He stood there with a photograph
of the one who'd been his bride
and he said; "we've done our best."
After twenty years .... he cried.
Copyright ©2003 GT Burton. All rights reserved.
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