Us ol'
cowboys savor spring's sweet kiss,
and know the nip of fall...
and we marvel at the mountains,
draped in white and standin' tall...
an' the summer's sure no stranger,
with her parched and dusty skin,
when the waterholes are puddles
and yer sippin' mud from tin.
And we know the whitefaced critters,
when they're snortin' streams of snot,
an' how, out here on the prairie,
we're the only friends they've got.
So we doctor them and mother 'em,
do artwork on their flanks.
Yet, in all my days cowboyin',
I ain't heard one single "Thanks."
Yep, them cows take lots for granted;
They're a selfish bunch for sure.
You can fill their guts with clover,
but they'll always ask for more.
And they're mighty low on gumption.
(It's the weakest of their traits.)
When they wanna go romancin',
they make us supply their dates.
So we pull their calves, and give 'em shots,
haul hay when snow's too deep.
And the shippin' time's no payoff,
when you're sellin' beef so cheap.
Who 'ould wanna be a cowboy.
Cows ain't capable of love.
Yet there's something in that curlin'
smoke and myriad stars above...
When the prairie's bathed in moonlight
and the herd is bedded down,
and the coyote's song's a soarin',
it's more glory than a crown.
Michael S. Robinson © Copyright
