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Cowboy Poetry and Western Verse
THE RANGE OF MY HOME
Neal Lewing
When I signed on for this job
I didn’t know I’d be standing in the rain,
or snow up to my eyeballs.
But it’s a dry cold, right?
I thought the hours would be compatible
to developing some sort of
coherent schedule,
bunk and board provided.
I can do my own laundry,
don’t mind doin’ the windows now and then;
I can cook and clean and make beds,
(cleaning toilets is a job from hell
though I’ve done my share
and not always my own.)
The company I keep is not above board,
more likely to pontificate on the creator
than to tend the task at hand
that deep-rooted Christian spirit
ascends to somewhere far from heaven
when there’s wire that needs mending.
My own ride’s a busted up old nag
but I reckon most folks give me
that same description.
Mostly they’re right.
Long nights on little sleep,
movin’ the herd to higher ground,
shooin’ away the wolves, two-legged and otherwise.
Didn’t know I’d be taking my life in my hands
when I joined up with this outfit.
But I’ve always held my life in my hands
that’s how I like it,
nobody puttin’ a gun to my temple.
Hell, who am I kiddin’?
I ain’t no cowboy, except in the open ranges
inside my head,
just a kid who got hooked on Gary Cooper westerns
by the time he was five.
Long as my boots are pointing east
when I wake up in Montana,
I am the ramrod.
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