Baxter's Books




TO THE FEEDLOT HOSS

by: Baxter Black

Boys, I offer a toast

To that creature tied to the post

Who through all his ills and occasional spills

Still gives us more than his most

He's black, bay or he's brown

Sorrell or spotted around

He eats that ol' hay even cows throw away

And makes his bed on the ground.

‘Round machinery and pumps that paddle

And trucks and gates that rattle

By a mill that roars he does his chores

He come here to jis' punch cattle.

See them four brands on his side

The ones that wuz burnt in his hide

He's been around and covered more ground

Than we'd ever care to ride.

For beauty he's often hard put.

Covered with mill dust and soot.

But in a slick pen or a mud and snow blend

He'll go where you won't go afoot.

In dust so thick you can't see

He breathes the same air that you breathe

And in cold rain he feels that same pain

That numbs and stiffens yer knees.

When the sun's beatin' down on yer head

And the rest of the day lies ahead

He's dreamin' too of the ranch he once knew

Where green grass and shade made a bed.

Yup, he makes every step that you take

And feels each ache that you ache.

And sweats, two fer one, every drop that you run

And seldom asks for a break.

So before we mount up and start

Think twice of yer four-legged pard.

When he seems short on brains jus' give him the reins

‘Cause boys, he's dang long on heart.

www.baxterblack.com







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