With his boss, boss's son and dog named Dale.
The crew and kine moved, without moo, bark or word,
Easy, somber and slow down the trail.
A few dark clouds gathered and a chill filled the air
And the old cowboy pulled tight his serape.
The foreman pulled his hat low on his hair
But the young feller yelled at his pappy.
"I ain't paid for this crap and won't ride in a cyclone!"
Though no drops yet smote critter nor cowhand.
"We'll all die from lightning, damp butt and cold bone,
Or from drowning here, miles from plowed land."
The foreman said "Son..." but the boy kept on cussing
And Dale yipped for agreement or fun.
Coyotes yelped back, and the cows started fussing,
'Til some choice words put them to the run.
The trail was a tempest, though rain never came down,
The foreman was kilt trying to turn the stampede.
The boy fired his pistol trying to reach dad on the ground
'Til a bad shot dropped him from his steed.
Dale found a new home where they preach the LORD's glory,
And tend to his comfort and spirit.
The old man's still riding and telling this story
And it's funnier each time you hear it.
A line was cut off, a cowherd was lost,
There's a lesson, if you're willing to barter:
Pour me some whiskey, and I'll tally the cost
Of mist on the cheek of a martyr.
STAMPEDE, n. The disagreeable in harmony.