Texty: Trent Willmon. Little More Livin. The Ropin' Pen.

Every Friday afternoon, I hitch up the trailer,
Saddle up ol' Rock an' ice down the cooler.
Drive that back road until it ends,
At the ropin' pen.

There's rusted out pick-ups an' fancy rigs;
Twenty-thousand dollar horses, then there's my ol' stag,
But we're all the same the minute we ride in,
To the ropin' pen.

Well I ain't no Clayo Speed,
But I give her hell,
Hell, you never can tell,
Some day, I just might be.

We'll turn a few steers an' tell a few lies;
Kick back in the saddle an' philosophise.
Most of life's problems, we can prob'ly solve 'em,
In the ropin' pen.

We don't do it for the money, hell we're always broke.
Just ask my ol' buddy Nathan what he'd pay to rope.
He lost a couple of wives an' the fingers on his hands,
To the ropin' pen.

An' it takes a little skill an' a little luck,
An' you can talk smack if you can back it up.
Ah, but we're all friends no matter who wins,
Here at the ropin' pen.

Well I ain't no Clayo Speed,
But I give her hell,
Hell, you never can tell:
Some day, I just might be.

We'll turn another pit of steers an' tell a few more lies;
Drink another beer and hypothesise.
Most of life's problems, hell, we're gonna solve 'em,
In the ropin' pen.

See y'all again next weekend,
Here at the ropin' pen.
At the ropin' pen.
Down at the ropin' pen.
In the ropin' pen.