My country, 'tis of thee, Land where things used to be So cheap, we croak. Land of the mavericks, Land of the puncher's tricks, Thy culture-inroad pricks The hide of this peeler-bloke.
Some of the punchers swear That what they eat and wear Takes all their calves. Others vow that they Eat only once a day Jerked beef and prairie hay Washed down with tallow salves.
These salty-dogs[14] but crave To pull them out the grave Just one Kiowa spur. They know they still will dine On flesh and beef the time; But give us, Lord divine, One "hen-fruit stir."[15]
Our father's land, with thee, Best trails of liberty, We chose to stop. We don't exactly like So soon to henceward hike, But hell, we'll take the pike If this don't stop.
[Footnote 14: Cowboy Dude.]
[Footnote 15: Pancake.]