A cowboy is the way he is because he works with stock.

He’s learned it’s best to ease along,

To find the rhythm in their song,

And not to fret if days are long,

‘Cause cows don’t punch a clock.

That separates him from the crowd that keeps a job in town,

That stack the boxes all in rows,

Or bolt the knobs on radios,

But when the evening whistle blows

They lay the hammer down.

“A job ain’t done until it’s done,” that’s life down on the farm.

To gather those who tend to stray,

To treat the sick on Christmas Day,

And if she needs your help, to stay.

Until she’s safe from harm.

You see, you can’t just quit a cow. Sometimes yer all she’s got.

No reinforcements in the hall,

No Nine-One-One to hear her call,

Just you. Nobody else, that’s all,

to get her through the spot.

His calling is as old as time. It is, will be and was.

Through blizzards, bogs and bob wire fence,

He stands against the pestilence,

And though he feigns indifference,

He’s proud of what he does.

It’s done without a second thought by those who tend the flock,

“It’s what I do,” you’ll hear them say,

With no demand for higher pay,

And I believe they are that way,

Because we work with stock.

Baxter Black is a cowboy, veterinarian, poet and humorist. His website is www.baxterblack.com.