I've hated you, you doggone cuss-you cut apart my range;
You're an ugly scar upon a land that didn't need no change.
I hate t' say these kind o' things-they tend t' tell my age-
But I was here upon this land when it was only sage.

Heck, I c'n tell you stories 'bout a time not long ago
When yonder valley, in the spring, was filled with buffalo;
The west was really wild then-the Indian still roamed;
He camped here in this very spot, in the mountains he called home.

'Course then in come the white man, an' the rest has done been told;
They killed off all those red men, for their land an' for their gold;
But even then, you cussed soul, the west just wouldn't die;
She had wild oats still left t' sow, an' she was ridin' high.

From Texas come the longhorn, a stout an' sturdy breed,
Without borders nowhere on the land that they must stop an' heed;
I was just a young man then, with a body taut an' lean;
I come up with a herd of steers, bound for Abilene.

Eight hundred dusty miles, they say, without a fence t' cross;
An' the only thing we'd answer to was one cagey trail boss;
Miles an' miles of virgin land stretched on out before;
Tracts of untrod sagebrush an' grassy hills galore.

I was young, an' I was tough, an' them others there were, too;
We had steel pipes for innards, an' veins that ran cold blue;
Times were hard, and so were we, an' we didn't want t' see
The hordes of hungry settlers from east t' Californie.

But even if we closed our eyes an' swore 'twas just the wind,
Like the buffalo gone before 'em, them folks kept pourin' in;
An' pretty soon they wanted all the land divided, like back east,
So's all of us cowpunchers soon come t' know the Beast.

An' you're the Beast, you ol' Bobwire, you dirty rotten filth-
You snuck across this cattle range with true, uncanny stealth;
Again I'll say I've cussed you, son, till I had no more breath;
I've seen you rip a cowboy up an' hang a calf t' death.

I got a scar across my back I got because of you,
An' I've fought some men who brought you in, for the damage that you do.
I've seen you rake a leg t' bone on the best darn horse I had,
And you'd a damn shore done the same t' me, but my legs was leather clad.

Now them big old longhorn steers just stand an' bawl, forlorn;
Like me, they know they ain't the free critters they was born;
Heck, a man can't ride here anymore, no more 'n a country mile,
Without he sees you, ol' Bobwire, stretched in dandy style.
I'll say I've rode across the plains a midnight ride or two
When me an' the boys from the ol' Bar None done took the shears t' you;
I ain't afraid t' say it, 'cause you made my life a hell,
By invadin' every valley, every mountain, every dell.

There's those who sworn t' have my blood for cuttin' up their fence,
But if they'd a known the hate in me, they'd a called on better sense;
They'd a let me ride across the range an' make it free again;
They'd a let me an' the old Bar None go where we had the yen.

For if the truth be known right now, Bobwire, I'd a shucked a gun or two,
To kill the man who strung you out 'cross the ranges that I knew;
But it never came t' guns for me-just my fists that drove men down;
A time or two I knocked some dirt poor farmer to the ground.

I've hated you, you bloody string, I've took yer name in vain;
An' if I had my youth back, I'd do it all again;
I've cussed at you an' called you names I wouldn't call the devil . . .
But I'll be square with you, Bobwire, an' tell it on the level.

I ain't the boy I used t' be, an' I can't rope a cow,
Can't get up on them ornery broncs-my bones ain't fit somehow;
Bobwire, I'm all busted up-my knee's got rheumatiz;
I can't head off one stampedin' calf, an' here my problem is:

The boss says he can't use me now t' ride a wild cayuse,
But it just ain't in his honest heart t' go an' cut me loose;
He has one more last job for me, one t' see me through,
So I can stay on this old spread, on the ranges that I knew.

Well, I guess you got me figgered, son, why there's pliers in my hand,
An' why I sit a buckboard when you see me cross this land;
Like you, old boy, I'm rusted up, an' there's parts of me that's broke;
An' t' all them younger punchers I ain't nothin' but a joke.

But though my pride's been bruised a bit, there's still a dream inside;
An' I hate like heck admittin' it, but my thankfulness I can't hide;
You've give me the only way I had t' stay out on this range,
T' try t' keep them towns at bay an' fight them winds o' change.

I spent my young years tearin' you down an' destroyin' yer posts with fire;
I'll use the rest out where I love, mendin' broken wire;
I've cussed you an' I've hated you, but I guess I'd be a liar
T' say I wasn't thankful now for you, rusted ol' Bobwire.

 

-Kirby Jonas Fall 1994