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Vaquero
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Lyrics that Micheal Whitaker came up with while vacationing in Mexico and I put some music tracks to.
country americana latin beat
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Western Music/Cowboy Poetry/Honky Tonk/Lodge/Classic Latin/Songwriter/promoter
Retired from the company in 2011 after 38.94 years and I can't complain. I am now semi retired and concentrating on my fishing, boats, music, concerts, club dates, and the organizations that I belong to. I am also committed to helping the community and doing what I can for those in need. A big thank you to Palouse Country Cowboy Poets Association, and the Western Music Association, they help me to help others. Thank you and God Bless
Song Info
Genre
Country • Country and Western
Charts
Peak #15
Peak in subgenre #3
Author
Micheal Whitaker/Bonifacio (B0die) Dominguez
Rights
Micheal Whitaker
Uploaded
October 15, 2013
Track Files
MP3
MP3 8.1 MB • 320 kbps • 3:33
Story behind the song
Micheal wrote this while vacationing in Mexico. I looked at it and came up with putting in to a Tex-Mex conjunto beat. I had just found a Herminio Salinas & Hijos classical/flamenco guitar in a yard sale and I liked the sound of it once it had been cleaned up and repaire. I lasid down the guitar parts with that guitar and I liked how it recorded.
Lyrics
VAQUERO Micheal Whitaker Mexican boots, a filthy black hat And his pants are soiled and worn. His face is dark as coral black And he stands on the ground he was born. He stumbles and rambles to passersby and is lost in a time he once lived. He drinks from his bottle, wonders why and thinks what the future might give. He looks to the burnt hills above him And he thinks of the days he once rode. Cattle, dust and the sun he would cuss, These small thoughts fill what’s left of his soul. The ships and the sea and the warm summer’s breeze Is a direction he never would go. He worked in a place of the rocks and Saguaro; it is the land this Vaquero would know. The waves wash his face and the moon takes its place And his bottle floats out to sea. No one will care about this lost Vaquero Or the time in his mind he should be. The boats go to fish through the cool morning mist And the new sun fills up the sky. The gringos fill the town and the shops all around And not one soul will wonder or sigh. He lives in the burnt hills above me And I think of the days that he rode. The cattle and dust and the sun he does cuss And the days that fills up his soul.
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