Classic Poem

The range's filled up with farmers and there's fences ev'rywhere.
A painted house 'most ev'ry quarter mile;
They're raisin' blooded cattle and plantin' sorted seed,
And puttin' on a painful lot o' style.

There hain't no grass to speak of and the water holes are gone,
The wire of the farmer holds 'em tight;
There's little use to law 'em and little use to kick,
And mighty sight less use there is to fight.

There's them coughin' separaters and their dirty, dusty crews,
And wagons runnin' over with the grain;
With smoke a-driftin' upward and writin' on the air,
A story that to me is mighty plain.

The wolves have left the country and the long-horns are no more,
And all the game worth shootin' at is gone;
And it's time fer me to foller, 'cause I'm only in the way,
And I've got to be a movin'—movin' on.