The Cowboys

The Cowboys

Out across the way,
where the coyotes play,
cowboys were trailin' a herd.
As they rode along one sang a song,
with a voice that fairly purred.
When the sun went down,
they bedded down and sent the nightguard out.
Things were goin' right
on this peaceful night
as the cattle milled about.

It was around midnight,
when the guard saw the light
that's called Saint Elmo's fire.
The nightguard's shout brought the cowboys out,
it was time to earn their hire.
As the lightnin' flashed
one cowboy dashed to turn the big, lead steer.
His horse too slow he watched them go
and his gut filled up with fear.

The trailboss was saddlin' his hoss,
when he saw the cook go by.
Salt pork flew and sugar did too
and he lost an apple pie.
One young hand without much sand
yelled out, "Don't take me Lord!"
The lightnin' flashed, the thunder crashed
and the rain just poured.

The old nightguard and thirty pokes rode hard
to turn the herd around.
In a full out ride to turn the tide,
hooves matched the thunder's sound.
One waddy in the lead was gainin' speed
and closin' on the big, lead steer.
Three thousand head or more crashed across the prairie floor
and made his duty clear.

Blood mixed with sweat, and its no sure bet
he'll see the next sunrise.
Live fast, love hard, die young ol' pard
and a cowpoke never cries.
Empty words mispoke by a brazen poke
sure don't help the fear.
The thunder's boom sounds impendin' doom
and its all that he can hear.

He saw the trailboss put the hooks to his hoss
and go down in the herd.
No hope, no chance in this wicked dance
death has the final word.
Rain fell hard on the old nightguard
and then he went down too.
Two men were dead, and the herd still sped
on through this devil's brew.

The waddy got 'em turned and they bawled and churned in the mud,
the blood and the rain.
In a mighty fight, the cowboys held 'em tight
in a storm that had gone insane.
At the break of day, they held the cows at bay,
while they buried their dead.
They tallied the cost of the cows they'd lost
at around four hundred head.

On a brand, new day they rode away
and headed down the trail.
The cost gets high, when good men die
on a journey to the rail.
They were the best, and they faced every test
from snakes to bogs and snow.
They came and went and their lives are spent,
but we can't let their memories go.

by Verlin Pitt