Camp Cookie

He's the tumbleweed chef and rides with the wagon
Ahead of the thunderin' herd.
His pots and pans clack like a diamondback's rattle,
He growls or he don't say a word.


His face is a roadmap. Looks like a carcass
Hung too many days in the sun.
He sells like a mule and cooks with a shovel
And his fly is always undone.


The rider kin tell when he's in the kitchen--
The buzzards all come into view.
He spits in the pan and shaves in the taters
and clips his toenails in the stew.


His gunpowder biscuits explode in the fire;
His beans explode in yer bowel.
His medda lark souffle is hard on the belly;
They say it tastes like an owl.


His coffee's so rank a housefly won't touch it.
Even buckshot floats in the slop.
You don't pour a cup, you twist off a swaller.
Then chew a sip offa the top.


Now, Cowboys are tough guys who face death each day
In blizzards or stampedes or storms.
They ride them bad horses and sleep with the snakes
And duel with the hooves and the horns.


But many a cowboy who follered the wagon
Has joined the "Last Roundup Club".
Not from indians, gunfights, or even bad whiskey,
But from eatin' Camp Cookies' grub.


Baxter Black