To the feedlot hoss
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,
Sorrel 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 comes 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.