His first day on George Fox’s high plains spread,
They called him “kid” e’en though he was fourteen.
Kid he remained for days and weeks, his bed
Out ‘neath the stars, where kids sleep. In between
Those chilly nights he worked hard, but still “kid”
Was what they called him. Then, one scorching day
When he had had enough, he stopped amid
Shit shoveling and other chores to say
To the old supervising hands “You know
I’m not a kid.” “You ain’t a cowboy yet,”
The hands all told him. “You got far to go.
We ain’t seen you do what you’ve gotta. Get
The irrigation shovel. Go five miles
Then we’ll tell you what’s next.” “There’s more?” “Oh, piles!”