This is a poem I wrote to be set to music.  My good friend and multi-talented artist W.C. Jameson has done a very nice recording of it.

              Lonesome Jim

     Sometimes he rides in on a sorrel,

          Sometimes he shows up on a bay.

     He drifts from one ranch to another

          In wintertime when there’s no pay.

     He does any chore that the ranch cook

          Or foreman will ask him to do—–

     Sort beans, fetch the water and firewood,

          Or cut up some spuds for the stew.

     He keeps to his bunk in the evening,

          You won’t hear him brag or complain,

     Till one morning his bedroll has vanished,

          And he’s off on the grubline again.

     To folks who don’t know him he’s a drifter

          Who goes here and there on a whim,

     But out on the range we don’t judge him,

          This fella we call Lonesome Jim.

     Come springtime he rides for an outfit

          And works for a dollar a day,

     Rides outlaws and ropes like a top hand

          And never has too much to say.

     Then roundup is done, and this loner

          Gets off of his stake rope a while,

     Cuts loose like a wolf on a full moon,

          Sings Mexican songs with a smile.

     He tells of the woman who left him,

          And a woman who died in the snow—–

     And he hopes he can find him another

          Who’ll stay for the end of the show.

     To folks who don’t know him he’s sorry,

          A drunk from his spurs to his brim,

     But out on the range we don’t judge him,

          This fella we call Lonesome Jim.

     He drinks himself broke in November

          Then lays up to get himself dry,

     Goes back on the grubline for winter

          With hopes that his hopes will not die.

     We know him without ever knowing him,

          We’ve seen it in others as well,

     A man with a weakness that sometimes

          He cannot control or dispell.

     There’s plenty of others who have it,

          A weakness we’re hard put to name—–

     It’s not just for women or whiskey,

          But it lives in the blood all the same.

     To folks who don’t know him he’s a pity,

          He’ll never get straight or fit in,

     But out on the range we don’t judge him,

          This fella we call Lonesome Jim.

     No, out on the range we don’t judge him,

          We wish all the best luck to him—–

     For our own stories aren’t all that different

          From this fella we call Lonesome Jim.