A ranch that spreads from here to Seattle,
Stocked with a million long-horn cattle.
Where the native grass grows nigh belly high,
Underneath a great big 01' western sky.

If all this sounds cockeyed and sorta insane,
Don't blame me, it's part of the game.
Truthfully though. . . the stock ranch it ain't.
It's all tucked away in my tubes of paint.

So when I grow restless I squeeze out a few,
Trot forth my brushes and a canvas or two,
And there on the horizon you see a bay pony.
Soon we're riding the hills of 01' Arizony.

A few more swipes and a stagecoach appears
As we fog into Bodie amidst all the cheers.
Now the scene changes and the wind she do blow.
I've got on my mackinaw and we're knee-deep in snow.

So here's sending you greetings, neighbor and friend,
And as this 01' year slides down to the end,
Toast one for me . . . and one for my house,
My blue-eyed dog and my redheaded spouse.

In case fortune's too busy and passes me by,
Look at it this way. '.' I'm one lucky guy.
I'll set myself down and squeeze out some paint
And create all that stuff. . . the stuff that just ain't.

BB