Riding Shotgun

Riding shotgun, a greener in you hand, Eyes never blinking, as they scan the land. Up on the top, some precarious ride, Where all can see, no place to hide. Scanning the creosote, every gully and wash, Always prepared for that deadly rush. Watching the heat waves, never ending rise, Trying to keep the alkalide dust from your eyes. Riding shot gun, for the Welles Fargo line, Bringing back nuggets from the western mines. Forty two miles till you hit Santa Fe, Forty two miles till the end of your day. An unappreciated job, but you do it well, In the middle of nowhere, and it burns like hell. Your throat dry as dust, you sure need a drink, The sun burning bright, makes your eyes blink. Only thirty more miles, and you can sit with a beer, Only thirty more miles, to let go of that fear. Every man feels it, facing the unknown, There's a racing in your heart, as the desert wind moans. Whip the team harder to the driver he says, This job is so taxing, and it doesn't pay. But in Santa Fe you'll be changing your mind, You'll be back on the stage, back to the grind. 2/15/11 Alton Texas