I was driving down the old white techie
With a mob of white-faced cattle for the corn-beef cannery
While the restless herd was browsing by the campfire I was drowsing
And I dreamed I was a prisoner in a court of fantasy
Oh,
my saddle-pony trench He sat on the judge's bench
And my counsel was a dog in wig and gown And the jury,
it appears,
was a dozen white-faced
steers And my pack-mule prosecutor for the crown
In my dreams I heard the accusations Of the
unsuspected bovines I had driven to the kill
Said the crown,
this callous herder,
is on trial for willful murder
So your verdict must be guilty,
and I'm certain that it will
On a bench for all to see,
lay exhibits A and B To where my whip
and spurs used in the trade I ply
And the weight of evidence made a wreck of our
defense For the jury's verdict stated I must die
I awakened from my dream in terror And I
swore from this day on I'd be a vegetarian
So the old white techie river Hide my whip and spurs forever
And no more I'll go a-droving,
droving cattle for the can