Montana was never on my list of places to visit,
Colorado and Florida were about as American as I traveled,
excluding business tours,
a few old-world haunts on the eastern seaboard,
adjoining flights in Chicago, Atlanta, Nashville, New York,
and letting Kid Denver breathe in Vegas.
Montana was nothing but a place I thought dental floss technicians were trained,
If you believed what Frank Zappa said,
I mean, I did meet Billy the Mountain once,
But that was before rehab,
So I’m not sure it counts.
Not until the long cool woman with the long barrels.
She could ride a horse up the side of a mountain,
but wouldn’t fly in a plane.
She could sing like Carrie Underwood,
but just wanted to be a range-girl in Montana,
wear jeans because they felt good,
love the smell of gunpowder,
and not care much about city boys.
I wrote her a song once.
She liked it and wrote me a poem,
at least I thought it poetic:
A man can’t be two men
Or even three
He needs to be himself
I’ve heard the heart of a man
In a song he wrote for me
He would have swept me off my feet
But he wasn’t here
He had to be there
That place that ain’t here
That place were the other man of the man had to be
Doing the thing that doesn’t sound like the man I heard sing to me
He can come back
The man with the soul
But he better remember I don’t miss when I get pissed
Now make a song out of this and I’ll sing it however you want
I’m just a woman, I am, Just a woman needing one man
I want to go back to Montana
Not just for the range-girl,
but to be one man,
not just a man,
but the one man