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The Old Cowman |
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Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!
Close and closer cramps the wire!
There's hardly play to back away
And call a man a liar.
Their house has locks on every door;
Their land is in a crate.
There ain't the plains of God no more,
They're only real estate.
There's land where yet no ditchers dig
Nor cranks experiment;
It's only lovely, free and big
And isn't worth a cent.
I pray that them who come to spoil
May wait till I am dead
Before they foul that blessed soil
With fence and cabbage head.
Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak!
Far and farther crawls the wire!
To crowd and pinch another inch
Is all their heart's desire.
The world is over-stocked with men,
And some will see the day
When each must keep his little pen,
But I'll be far away.
When my old soul hunts range and rest
Beyond the last divide, Just plant me in some stretch of West 166 |
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