By Lee Henry
Rattlin' of pans in the pre-dawn light
Signals the end of a cold bitter night.
Jawin' and gratin' of the coffee grinders song
Says get up cowboy its near breakin' dawn.
A grouchy ole figure with pot hook in hand
Reflects a lifetime of cookin' with his wrinkles and tan.
His breakfast from memory is simple to fix
It's salt pork, coffee, sourdough and lick.
His kitchen of canvas, chuckwagon and Hanes
Prances and dances in the flickerin' flames.
From inside the chuckbox the Cookie removes
A large sack of flour and a bottle of booze.
With his back to the bedrolls from the bottle he takes
A nip of "White Lightnin'" to ward off the snakes.
The tools of his trade, a bowl he has kept
Thru thunder and lightin’ and rustlers he’s met.
Washed in the streams and scrubbed by the sands
His large wooden bowl he carved with his hands.
Blendin' the lard in the fixins so neat
From the crock pours the sourdough, it's sour but sweet.
The biscuits are cut and then to the Dutch
Are crowded together by the master’s touch.
The coals from the fire on the lid with a lip
Are hot as a Colt drawn from the hip.
The golden brown sourdoughs from his Dutch oven pan
Has filled the craw of many-a-man.
With his back to the cowboys ridin' over the crest
A nip he will take before attackin’ the mess.
With bottle in hand, and the marks from a quirt
As he Toasts, "Thanks Cookie" Cut in the Dirt.
Signals the end of a cold bitter night.
Jawin' and gratin' of the coffee grinders song
Says get up cowboy its near breakin' dawn.
A grouchy ole figure with pot hook in hand
Reflects a lifetime of cookin' with his wrinkles and tan.
His breakfast from memory is simple to fix
It's salt pork, coffee, sourdough and lick.
His kitchen of canvas, chuckwagon and Hanes
Prances and dances in the flickerin' flames.
From inside the chuckbox the Cookie removes
A large sack of flour and a bottle of booze.
With his back to the bedrolls from the bottle he takes
A nip of "White Lightnin'" to ward off the snakes.
The tools of his trade, a bowl he has kept
Thru thunder and lightin’ and rustlers he’s met.
Washed in the streams and scrubbed by the sands
His large wooden bowl he carved with his hands.
Blendin' the lard in the fixins so neat
From the crock pours the sourdough, it's sour but sweet.
The biscuits are cut and then to the Dutch
Are crowded together by the master’s touch.
The coals from the fire on the lid with a lip
Are hot as a Colt drawn from the hip.
The golden brown sourdoughs from his Dutch oven pan
Has filled the craw of many-a-man.
With his back to the cowboys ridin' over the crest
A nip he will take before attackin’ the mess.
With bottle in hand, and the marks from a quirt
As he Toasts, "Thanks Cookie" Cut in the Dirt.
Reprinted with permission.
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