My friend and I were looking for a quiet place to eat. We’d sold the cows and
grabbed our check. Our day was near complete.
We’d driven my old Chevy ‘bout two hundred miles from home. We hadn’t seen
a bath and neither head had used a comb.
A hint of cow manure was rising-up from both our boots. We fit the picture of
two worn out, hungry cowboy coots.
We both preferred The Coffee Shop, at home so far away. But we settled for a
fancy inn that advertised “Buffet.”
The maître d’ looked down on us. Said, “Move along old men.” His voice spoke
with authority so moving was our plan.
But our legs were sore and swollen and they showed the years of wear. We sure
don’t break no record speed when using old Shank’s Mare.
I looked the young man straight ahead, then gave him my stink-eye. I said, “We
don’t mean much to you and think I know just why.
“You’re primping in a new blue suit. Your beak at 45. No one has taught you
manners, yet respect is still alive.
“So, let this old man tell you just how much you oughta know. And maybe if
you’re smart enough you’ll use this chance to grow.
“The beef, which you’ve been serving here, is more than chunks of meat. Before
they were a tenderloin, they walked on all four feet.
“My friend and I raise beef you know. Try kicking that about. I doubt you know
that cows eat hay and where the crap comes out.
“The spuds you place beside the meat are usually mashed or fried. They’re grown
by men who work the land and raise their crops with pride.
“This job you now rely on, son, depends on men like us. Not to mention all the
food you eat. Consider that a plus!
“So, when you call us old men, youngster, do it with a smile. And keep your
fingers crossed that we’ll be raising beef awhile.
“I’m sorry that our boots are kinda grungy, in a way. But tonight, we’ll both be
dining at your fancy food buffet.”