Off across the wide arroyo sweeps the breezes of the fall,
Where the haze of Injun summer sort o’ lingers over all;
Ev’ry bronco is cavortin’ in the chilly autumn air,
And the yippin’ of their riders is resoundin’ everywhere.
The campfire smoke is risin’ sort o’ lazy-like and slow,
Where the cook is busy mixin’ up a batch o’ sour-bread dough;
And the boys who rode on night-herd are a a-yawnin’ in their beds,
While the foreman showers cuss-words down upon their luckless heads.
There’s a smell of fryin’ bacon as it sizzles in the pan,
And the boys’ll soon be lined up at the mess-box to a man;
And the cups’ll be a-clatter, for the coffee’s b’ilin’ hot,
While the slapjacks that are bakin’ are a-going to hit the spot.
Soon the dust-clouds will be risin’ where the herd is stragglin’ through,
And there’ll be some lively doin’s by the hull blamed round-up crew;
There’ll be runnin’, there’ll be dodgin’ when they start to cuttin’ out,
And the sagebrush flats will echo with the cowman’s lusty shout.
So you’d better cord yer beddin’ and then climb into your chaps,
And when you hev gulped your coffee, cinch yer latigoes and straps,
For they’re drivin’ in the hawss-herd and the puncher’s day’s begun,
And there’s goin’ to be some sweatin’ ‘fore the cuttin’ out is done.
(Earl Alonzo Brininstool)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Coffee PoemsBased on Keywords: straps, drivin, cinch, gulped, cuttin, campfire, runnin, hev, foreman, risin, injun