Ranch Hand/Tamara Hillman

"Western artist Ken Schmidt cowboy-ranch hand"

Ranch Hand

I been slappin' leather

 since I was just a lad.

 Ain't never know'd no better,

 an' for that I'm kinda glad.

 I love the life a ropin',

 an' brandin' all them critters.

 Thoughts a ever settlin' down

 just give this man the jitters.

 Bustin' bronchs, breakin' ribs,

 it's a rough n' tumble life.

 Ain't got time for kids an' such,

 or takin' of a wife.

 Wide-open spaces are my home,

 no walls to close me in.

 Makin' due on beans an' pork,

 and coffee from a tin.

 Winds a blowin' mournful tunes,

 at times a lightnin' storm,

 not needin' many blankets,

 got ol' Shep to keep me warm.

 Driftin' 'cross the prairie,

 only workin' here and there,

 don't want for any valuables,

 live life without much care.

 I hate responsibility,

 ranch foreman ain't my style.

 Don't wanna boss my buddies,

 just work with 'em awhile.

 Ridin' fence, I favor

 'cept when winter's closin' in,

 then I find the bunkhouse

 sure makes a cozy den.

 I never do get lonesome,

 cowboys meet up now and then

 to share a jug a whiskey,

 and play a hand a Gin.

 Now, if I was to give advice,

 don't know where I'd begin,

 but maybe just to tell ya

 for your hair is gettin' thin,

 Don't wish for ever livin'

 bigger than God's plan,

 just be content if all ya are

 is a mangy old ranch hand. 

 © 2001, Tamara Hillman

 This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.