Modern Cowboy Seeks Country Song Cowgirl for Southern Romance
Must love driving in my old pickup truck down to the river to fish and drink PBR while listening to the classics of George Strait. Should be comfortable wearing cowboy boots, Crimson Tide t-shirts and cut-off shorts that allow me to peek at the butterfly tattoo on your tailbone. Bonus points if you’re willing to stand barefoot on the toolbox of my Daddy’s tractor and shake your jiggly bits for me.
Not looking for girls who might be the types to run their keys into the side of my souped up four-wheel drive Legacy after the rodeo’s moved on. Or the crazy-ass kind that drive too fast to Cincinnati with my baby in the back seat on a snow-white Christmas Eve. If you’re up for this, you gotta love me like Jesus does.
Speaking of which, don’t answer unless you’re a good Christian daughter. Must be ready to take regular dips in the East Tennessee mud and give the heavens above more than just a passing glance. Prefer Baptist, but willing to consider a Methodist with a nice ass.
I know where I come from, how about you? I’ll spend a little more for a girl who’s American-made, especially if you know all the words to the Pledge of Allegiance. Born on a farm in the heartland, with the red white and blue flying high on your silo? You’ve got my vote.
Don’t think I’m up for just a kiss in the moonlight or a touch by the fire burning so bright. I wanna see your brown skin shimmer in the sun for the first time, I wanna watch you dance around in my old shirt, I wanna pair of jeans that fit just right. And maybe some chicken fry.
Make no mistake about it, I’m ready for the long haul. I’m gonna spend the rest of my life reminding you about the time we were the airport sucking each other’s face off and I made you miss your flight. Or when we flew down to Mexico and tequila made your clothes fall off. That shit sure does make people crazy.
If you vow to be my little Loretta, I’ll stand up in front of the preacher and pledge to be your Mississippi, your shot of whisky and your honey bee. Just as long as you’re not in the pink 80s dress with the creepy spider web bra that Loretta wore on the cover of the Coal Miner’s Daughter. That kind of sight ain’t never right.
Knowing my horsepower, you’ll probably have a couple of buckaroos pretty quick, but that’s okay with me. I’ll buy ‘em Scooby Do nightlights and camo pants when they’re in their booster seats, and show ‘em how to fix things with WD40 and a Craftsman wrench when they’re bigger. Or we’ll just go out and shoot something.
I’m not here for a long time, I’m here for a good time. You may have other offers from pretty boys acting tough, but they’re one-hit wonders who wouldn’t know one end of a bobcat from the other. Or how to gut it in under 10 minutes. Or which parts you can eat raw.
So give me a call. I don’t highlight my hair, I still got a pair and I’m known as one helluva guy.