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Poem	When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old, By the foot or the neck or the horn, He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white But I'll throw him as sure as you're born. Though the taut ropes sing like a banjo string And the latigoes creak and strain, Yet I got no fear of an outlaw steer And I'll tumble him on the plain. _For a man is a man, but a steer is a beast,_ _And the man is the boss of the herd,_ _And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,_ _Must come down when he says the word._ When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse And my spurs clinch into his hide, He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch, But wherever he goes I'll ride. Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke, But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel Till he's happy to own he's broke. _For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,_ _And the hawse may be prince of his clan_ _But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot_ _And own that his boss is the man._ When the devil at rest underneath my vest Gets up and begins to paw And my hot tongue strains at its bridle reins, Then I tackle the real outlaw. When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild And my temper is fractious growed, If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck, Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed. _For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast._ _He kin brag till he makes you deaf,_ _But the one lone brute, from the west to the east,_ _That he kaint quite break is himse'f._
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