Bunkhouse Porch

They gather at the bunkhouse,
To have a little fun.
From cowboy to the cooks louse,
When their day’s work is done.

They come to hear a new tale,
Or join the sing along.
Yarns spun on the cowboy trail,
Often retold through song.

Some tales are of cattle drives,
Others are of horses.
Some the feats of cowboys lives,
Others nature’s forces.

Most these tales been told before,
Some are made up brand new.
Many make your spirits soar,
Yet others you just rue.

There’s always one old cowboy,
Whose tales can weave a spell.
He tells of a new colt’s joy,
Or of a snow storm’s hell.

The songs they might be ribald,
And cowgirls might just blush.
But when the last yarn is drawled,
“Good Night” prayer brings a hush.