Punchers

Floyd Henderson

Wearing fatigue like their shrouds
But stiffly sitting saddles proud
Endlessly riding with dust and heat
That pounds on heads, trying to beat
These men of steely gaze and iron wills

As they work baked plains or piney hills
To comb cussed critters out of the breaks
Bearing up and pushing on whatever it takes
Thankful for fifteen miles trailed in a day
With beef and beans their stomachs' pay
And coffee black as sin to bolster wills
Beaten hard by days that test the skills
And bend punchers' minds to bitterness
Against their war with this wilderness
To wrest a living from sun-baked plains
With only paltry wages for their pains.