If you've never had that feeling
or never think there may come a day when you might,
then you might as well stop here,
because there ain't no way you're going to understand
the sheer terror that Art Cligglio felt
when he thought about lying awake in bed
and hearing that far away whistle
and imagining that those big old steel wheels
were bouncing down the rails saying:
"Clickity Clack. Clickity Clack.
Train's done gone.
It ain't comin' back."

That's why Art Cligglio wiped the shaving cream from his face
before the steel ever had a chance to pull against his whiskers,
walked into the kitchen, and announced to his wife over the splattering bacon
that he'd done taught his last day of Social Studies at Crossgrove High School
and by God, he was going to do it!
He was going to become a Singing Cowboy!

There was a little bit of an interim.
Well, that bit of time it took Cora to stop laughing
after she realized that Art wasn't kidding.
And then there was the pleading and the begging
and the pathetic sniveling.
And when Art finally left the house at a quarter ‘til eight
Cora was really convinced that he was going to work.
Of course, she knew better when Art came home that evening
covered with more sequins than Elvis,
and he was trying to figure out just how to hold a lariat.

Cora was a resourceful person, though.
She called up Mr. Herschfeld, the principal at Crossgrove,
and convinced him her husband wasn't at all too well,
which wasn't far from the truth,
at least as far as Cora was concerned.

Cora was patient, too,
even though Art refused to see Dr. Waxman,
especially after all the trouble she went through
to get him in on such short notice and all.
Cora was patient, patient and calm.
She stayed calm when Art stood on the coffee table
and knocked over the lamps with his lasso.
She stayed calm when all the neighbors complained
because Art was yodeling out in the backyard at one a.m.
She even stayed calm when Art ruined the brand new upholstery with his spurs.
The horse, however, was too much,
especially since Pellet wasn't housebroken.
So Cora packed her suitcase, took the cat, and left.

Art thought he made one helluva deal.
He traded the entire house - lock, stock, and barrel -
for a fairly decent pickup and an almost new trailer,
cashed in the CDs,
and headed for LA,
singing the whole way:
"Yippee yi yo!
Yippee yi yea!
Ki yi Yippee yi!
It's a wonderful day!"

Of course, Cora was more than willing to drop the divorce,
even to forget she'd brought the whole deal up to begin with,
when Art really did become a Singing Cowboy.
Five million up front, fifteen percent royalties,
and a healthy hunk of the video profits,
not to mention a movie and a certain sequel.
Sweet. Sweet. Sweet.

Heck, even the neighbors seemed to forget
that they'd ever been kept awake,
and the guy that got Art's old house
ended up feeling that somehow he'd gotten the worse deal,
although he really wasn't certain why he should feel that way.

And Art?
Art forgave the neighbors.
Art took his wife back,
even the cat.
Art didn't care.
Why should he?
Hell, he got to be a Singing Cowboy!