The Lazy O - Home

I’m up here ta tell y’all somethin’ ’bout brands,
That blackened, burned-on scar on ol’ cowhide.
It took a real artist ta do it right,
An’ make a good mark on an ol’ cow’s side.

Thar were so many styles an’ variations,
Ta all the letters an’ numbers ever known.
So if ya’ didn’t do it jist ’xactly right,
Ya’ ended up with a brand that weren’t yer own.

Say one ranch branded with a Lazy 7,
An’ the neighbor’s cows carried a Lazy L,
The confusion such a thing would often cause,
Sent many ’pokes on an early ride ta hell.

On thet li’l ol’ ranch where I grew up,
Every year at brandin’ time, this I knew:
I was the one ta handle the hot irons,
An I needed help from the whole damn crew.

They had ta hold that calf real still,
I had ta place that iron jist so.
’Cuz we branded all our cattle,
With that now most infamous brand,
The Lazy O.

Devil’s Rope

I cain’t do nuthin’ but hate the stuff;
It’s really jist vile, like Satan’s fire.
An’ thar ain’t been ’nuff damnation wrote,
’Bout that rotten-to-the-core bob wire.

Thar’s one thing I’ll ne’er understand,
Is how it has ever come to be,
That there are more miles o’ that darn stuff,
Than thar be grains o’ sand ’long the sea.

Some town in Illinois years ago,
Was short o’ rope, or they had no tree,
Lest the inventor of that ‘Devil’s Rope,’
Would have been set ta swingin’ free.

I have figured jist how it happened.
’Twas a misguided onry ol’ skunk,
Musta been sufferin’ somethin’ fierce,
After a two-week tequila drunk.

I can clearly see that ol’ rascal.
He had ta have been an Eastern dude.
An’ was cogitatin’ whilst still drunk,
Enraged in thet vengeful, fightin’ mood.

With his ol’ gnarled and bony fingers
He fashioned that wire, then that ol’ cuss
Went an’ bedecked it with Bowie knives
Ta slice, dice, and murder the rest of us.

It comes in coils, jist like a rattler,
But a snake will bite an’ let ya go,
While this here vicious, venomous stuff
Attacks ya’ agin every foot or so.

’Twas invented a long time ago,
An’ we ain’t done naught ’bout it ta now.
Well, you new-fangled computer nerds,
Compute! An’ get rid of it somehow.

Thet’s ’cuz not a stran’ o’ that bob-wire
Can be left fer anyone ta see.
So now git rid of that Devil’s Rope,
Or else I’ll set ya’ all . . .
. . . ta swingin’ free.