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Cowboy Poetry and Western Verse
Irons in the Fire
Tom Sheehan
Prairie grass and pale squaw pine,
dead growths from cottonwoods,
a struck match or powder flash
say, “This beef is justly mine.”
So branding irons start to steam
as they’re pulled from reddened fire,
and scar a brand on younger beef,
rare steak one’s hunger brings to dream.
In N’Orleans or Mo’s St Lou
or far-off Phila-delph-I-ay,
the iron from a Texas fire
guarantees the steak is true;
Say it’s outright from our cows
drovers pushed along the grass
to linked boxcars on the steel,
headed where that rail allows.
And when the meal is over
and the chef gets compliments,
all good diners table-fed
should think about the drover
Who rode north with healthy beeves,
who herded them drear cold and wet,
or nearer deserts dryer than
any steak-fed man believes.
Long before the stove’s lit up,
before chefs fire their frying pans
or put pepper on that steak,
branding irons did bless that sup.
Past the mark where iron stayed,
in the taste of charcoal steak,
there’ll be hints of Texas skies
and a touch that Texas made.
Know you all, by this account …
It’s the cowboy and his mount.
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