It was the first week of elk season,
I was in the Cowboy Bar
In Jackson Hole, Wyoming,
Where people come from near and far.
There were real cowboys, urban cowboys,
And cowboys for a day,
And Indians in authentic garb...
Or at least it looked that way.
There were mountain men in buckskin,
And they sure did smell the part,
And joggers in them lycra tights,
Plus a few in plain old K-Mart.
Some women were overdressed in furs.
Where they came from, one just wonders.
A motorcycle group, or course in black,
And then there were the hunters.
Now these hunters were a rowdy bunch -
They'd started drinkin' early,
Telling tales and gettin' loud -
A few were downright squirrely.
An elderly couple next to me
Were from Scotland on vacation.
They watched from saddle bar stools
With tremendous fascination.
The hunters grew louder swapping lies,
They weren't listenin' to each other
Til one of 'em said something bad,
I guess 'bout someone's mother.
Knuckles flew into his jaw.
He responded back the same.
I thought there'd be a barroom brawl
Until the big boys came.
The lady from Scotland said to me
As the bouncers broke up the throes,
"Ay, Isn't America wonderful,
They get the drunks to wear orange clothes."