He’s the tumbleweed chef and rides with the wagon
Ahead of the thunderin’ herd.
His pots and pans clack like a diamondback’s rattle.
He growls or he don’t say a word.
His face is a roadmap. Looks like a carcass
Hung too many days in the sun.
He smells like a mule and cooks with a shovel,
And his fly is always undone.
The riders kin tell when he’s in the kitchen,
The buzzards all come…