'Save your hoss for the hills ahead,' is the cowboy's placid song. <br />While his clear eyes follow the twinkling train as the Titan speeds along; <br />He grins as the tail lights die in space and a cloudless moon appears, <br />His free heart tuned to his pony's pace, he sings to the shuffling steers. <br />And, 'He's bustin' right into To-morrow, bronc; just splittin' the night in two; <br />I reckon he's got the right of way, but that's nothin' to me and you; <br />Oh, he'll make his time and we'll take our time with plenty of room to roam, <br />So it's save your hoss for the hills ahead and mebby you'll make it home.' <br />And these are the singers the outlands know, each with his work in hand, <br />In the lurching cab of the Desert Mail; in saddle and grazing land; <br />One who sings to the midnight herd, breathing his simple creed, <br />And one who hurtles through cloven space singing the song of speed.<br /><br />Henry Herbert Knibbs<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/right-of-way-4/
