On the circuit all these years,
Upon his face a painted frown
And from his eyes he drew some tears.
A floppy hat with tattered brim,
Baggy pants and bright suspenders;
Somewhat paunchy no longer trim,
A faster time he remembers.
He likes his whiskey straight up
And his women laying down;
Never knew him to use a cup,
Just a bottle in a bag of brown.
Now every bone I think he's broke,
At least once and most likely more;
"But for the whiskey," I heard him joke,
He would have retired long before.
Tulsa Tommy, Oklahoma tough,
They don't make 'em like that no more;
These days it's all health food and stuff,
And lifting weights - what a bore.
It's dangerous work a rodeo clown,
But Tommy man, he keeps it real,
And like he says beneath his frown,
"With the whiskey, it's no big deal."
Yes, a sober breath he never drew,
But cowboy clowns he's still the dean;
And though he's lost a step or two,
Tulsa Tommy still stands between.
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