It’s a’ hundred an’ ten,
'Neath the shade of my chin,
An’ the prairie’s cracked like old leather.
Looks like my skin,
Where a boys face once had been,
The years; how they do gather?
Time’s been cruel to the Staked Plains,
Once gorged by ancient rains,
Now seized in her dusty wrath.
Barren amber grass now remains,
Scorched breath tries removin' her stains,
Beseechin’ her forbidden bath.
Pony or calf my only shade,
‘Cept what little Resistol made,
Bestowed Blessin’s upon an’ open range.
A Prairie Moon brings little aide,
North Star brought a wind laid,
Thanks Lord, it’s a welcomed pleasant change.
By: Jim “Ish” Fellers
Copyright ©; June 1, 2008 ~ Sunday