Drovers, with their cattle herds,
To market coming, stick in hand,
Guiding their charges with swear words
With a sure, and yet gentle hand.
These Longford roads still are winding, some narrower still,
The drovers job is done by big lorries today
From farm to factory, to market and back,
Where once drover was king, this his highway.
I, a walker, wanderer, poet
As I call myself, in my own eyes,
As a drover poet wrote of before,
A cow to my musing with bellows replies,
As if to ask, what am I thinking, a fool
The world is always changing, it is only a game…
But a poet is a poet, and a cow is a cow,
No matter how jobs change, the world is the same