On the Edge of Common Sense

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 onto view.

He...