Tex the Pontificator

When it’s hot and dry in Texas, it’s hot and dry for sure.
The cattle turn to skeletons; the dust is fine and pure.
The sun will bake your skin on through, yep, right on down to bone.
The roosters give up crowing, and the goats can hardly moan.

You see mirages dancing on the highway up ahead.
If you count on them for water, you are going to wind up dead.
The rivers stop their flowing, and the tanks get filled with dust,
And the hogs’ll eat on prickly pear, just doing what they must.

The crops all shrivel in the fields, just turning brown and crisp.
If you get a cotton boll, it’s nothing but a whisp.
The sorghum won’t keep mice alive, the corn is worthless, too.
Farming dry in Texas is a thing you’ll come to rue.

The ranchers keep on struggling, asking God for rain,
But the bankers look for payments, feeling their own pain.
There ain’t two ways about it. When the weather’s hot and dry,
In the parched dust of Texas, things are going to die.

To reply, email texthepontificator at yahoo dot com.

Labels: doggerel, Texas