My Old Stetson Hat 
Stained with alkali, sand and mud
Smeared by grease and crimson blood.
Battered and bent from constant use,
Still you stood up to all the abuse.
A true companion through all these years.
Fanning broncs and longhorn steers.
I dedicate this to that ol' gray lid,
For the useful things the old hat did.
Used to decoy some rustler's lead,
Or as a pillow 'neath my head;
Coaxing a smouldering fire in the cold,
Panning dust in search of gold.
Pushed up big, then knocked down flat,
Has been the lot of my Stetson hat.
For carrying oats to a piebald bronc,
Security for drinks in the honkey tonk.
Mistreated, abused on a roundup spree,
Walked on, tromped on, old J.B.
Fighting fire in a clapboard shack,
Or stopping wind through an open crack.
Been everywhere a hat can go,
In 48 states and Mexico.
I've grown old as we trailed along,
While you, old hat, are going strong.
You've been a good pal through all of that,
You dirty, old, gray Stetson hat.
Author Unknown