Rattlin of pans in the dawn light
Signals the end of the night.
Gratin’ of the coffee grinders song
Says get up cowboy its breakin’ dawn.
A grouchy ole figure with pot in hand
Reflects a lifetime of cookin’
His skin wrinkled and tan.
His breakfast from memory is simple to fix
It’s salt pork, coffee, sourdough.
His kitchen of canvas,
By the chuckwagon he
Prances and dances in the flickerin’ flames.
From inside the wagon, 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 cold.
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 own hands.
Blendin’ the lard in the fixins so neat
From the crock pours the sourdough.
The biscuits are cut and then to the oven Dutch
Crowded together by the master’s touch.
The coals from the fire on the lid with a lip
There as 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 riding over the crest
A nip he will take before attackin’ the mess.
With bottle in hand,
As they ride away,
He hears the boys say,
“Thanks Cookie”,Its time we get to work today!!