Rocks and ravens and rivers and stone,
Sitting and moving, so they do roam;
The bison and deer, safe from all harm,
From moving train, shot without alarm.
Clear skies and thunder, exist alone,
Shouting and crying, from home to home;
They walk their road, no human can see,
They roam and roam, they’re wild and free.
Lines of labor, gravel, wood, and steel,
Moved from their home, the only thing real;
All is quiet on the Western Front,
Not of war, but the expanding hunt.
Horses of power, and vests with teal,
Led night after night, of nightly deal;
In back rooms and cellars, out of sight,
They played and gambled, all through the night.
Liquor was gone, only bootleg left,
More and more cowboys, scared of some theft;
They built their own mood, stoic and proud,
They brought fear, guns, and skins to the crowd.
So, they were seen, alone and bereft,
Hands stark and coarse, and callused and deft;
They broke horses and hunted them down,
Trained them and rode them, all through the town.
These midwestern cowboys, all alone,
Until someday, someone makes them see;
They’re not alone, to deal with this heft,
They have small towns, who love them to death.