A poem written by an old timer for a mate of mine who is a drover…

'' Gasoline Cowboy ''


The stock routes looking barren,
And waters short as well
you won’t hear the hobble chains
Or the horses bell.

The drovers have to make a change,
And its one that they don’t like,
Their horses have been quarantined,
And they have to ride a bike.

You don’t have to use a nose bag,
To catch them every day,
A bit of fuel is all you need
You have no use for hay

Now this iron horse won’t kick you,
But can throw you just as hard
As any touchy youngin’
In some dusty station yard.

This flu can’t go on forever,
And will finally run its course,
It’s only a matter of time old Mick
‘Til you are back up on your horse.


by cob