I was concerned at first that this one sounded a little too much like a contemporary country song lyric. But, on second thought, those rough ‘n tumble folks whose lives are lived in the often harsh and unforgiving collision of disciplined ranch life with a relentlessly greedy marketplace do live lives not unlike a rhyming song.
Cowboys, fiddles, flapjacks and boots,
fossilized farm tools, rust in the roots.
Breakfast at dawn, now to welcome the day,
well before coffee, the horses get hay.
Dog’s on the porch nearly losing his mind,
barking insistently trouble to find.
As the last ranch hand has loaded the truck,
sisters and mothers got cobbed-corn to shuck.
‘Sbeen twenty years since this place has made money,
nor a vacation for he and his honey.
The kids have been patient and never complain,
despite hand-me-downs nigh as wore as the train.
When dinnertime comes and they sit at the table,
hands clasp in prayer, ‘cause their faith ain’t no fable.
Then Papa prays words that they all know so well,
and they gratefully dine till their bellies are full.
Mom still can sing and has music to spare,
for six tired children too weary to care.
Through notes sung with love lives a heart touched with grief,
for this place to survive there must soon come relief.
And when the day’s ended and covered in sweat,
a dog-tired sun not yet ready for bed,
succumbs to the weight of a perfect, round moon,
till daylight returns a few hours too soon.
If you think this here’s the end to this tale,
kindly don’t think that these good folk will fail.
There’s plenty of hope in their hearts to go round,
‘cause this is ranch life, where the lost can be found.