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Poem

His old hands were calloused from all the many years of work and toil.
   His life seemed to be his work and the never ending search for oil.
Seven days a week with no let up in sight,
   He manned those rigs morning, noon, and night.

A dangerous and hard job where everyone strived to be the best,
   In all types of weather, under the open skies you were put to the test.
A rowdy lot, the Roughneck Breed, but a brotherhood just the same.
   In unproven fields called wildcatters, that had to be tamed.

You work with iron that intimidates most, but is a normal days fare,
   And you can look any man in the eye and match their stare.
From H2S gas that can kill you on the spot,
   To getting crushed or mangled by that awesome iron for the faint hearted it is not.

To a blowout that happens when inexperience leads the way,
    A few of the things that happen somewhere each and every day.
The rookie they call the squirrel or the worm,
   And he has to prove himself before he is classified with a different term.

They work in shifts that work around the clock,
    Some work eight hour shifts, some work twelve trying their best to keep that rig
    drilling thru dirt and rock.
Most of these old boys like to drink and raise a little cain,
    Just their way of hiding inner fear and gut wrenching pain.

A word of advice don’t push these guys cause they’re liable to push back,
    Cause drinking and fighting or skills these old boys certainly don’t lack.
But if you’re in need they’ll share everything they own,
    And that’s part of the reason these guys are the best bunch of people I think I’ve ever 
    known.

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