The Ostrich-Punching of Arroyo Al
I was broke in Arizony, and was gloomy as a tomb
When I got a chance at punchin’ for an outfit called Star-Plume;
I did n’t ask no wherefores, but jest lit out with my tarp,
As happy as an angel with the newest make o’ harp.
When I struck out from the bunkhouse, for my first day on the range,
I thought the tracks we follered was peculiar like and strange,
And when I asked about it, the roundup foreman sez:
‘You ain’t a-punchin’ cattle, but are herdin’ ostriches.’
Well, we chased a bunch of critters on the hot and sandy plain,
Though 't was like a purp a-racin’ with a U. S. A. mail train;
But at last we got ‘em herded in a wire fence corral,
And the foreman sez, off-hand like: ’Jest go in and rope one, Al.’
Well, the first one that I tackled was an Eiffel Tower bird,
But that noose ain’t pinched his thorax 'fore several things occurred:
He spread his millinery jest as if he meant to fly,
And then he reached a stilt out, careless, and smote me above the eye.
They pulled me out from under that millin’ mass o’ legs,
And the fed me on hot whiskey and the yolks of ostrich eggs;
And as soon as I was able, I pulled freight for Cattle Land,
And the ostrich-punchin’ business never gits my O. K. brand.
