By Andrew R. Duckworth
Ripping down Chisholm,
Residential lights and city sights.
Popped out of the blue,
Like a home I never knew I had.
Scorching sun in spring and summer.
Scorching sun in fall and winter.
But bars a street off of West 7th
Quench a man’s thirst,
A home-bound cowboy
Stopping by an ole cantina,
Hitching the steel horse in a garage.
Fort Worth is like a small town and a city
That decided to get married.
Sometimes, the charm of a town.
Sometimes, the vibrance of a city.
Sometimes, the roar of a rowdy crowd.
Sometimes, places still worn and gritty.
Stockyard steaks and cowboy hats,
The smell of newly crafted leather boots.
And then there is downtown.
Downtown, where angel blasts her trumpet
To gather in all of those theatre goers,
And the comedy club
Is in no short supply of laughter,
As the sun moves between two buildings,
Then, below the western horizon.