On Sausages

The rancher’s hands, calloused and dirty,
Grips the reins, in the morning, two thirty,
Cows on the plains, they must come quickly,
Herded back by the rancher’s hand,
Herded back across the rancher’s homeland,
Tired eyes scanning the dirt and sand.
He oft doesn’t return in days,
And just in case he don’t return by quick ways,
Tied up in his saddlebag and packed away
Are sausages.

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