My heart goes out to Anna B.
For her life long toil and struggle
And my thanks to her for a watchful eye
To keep me out of trouble
My grandmother is of who I speak
And Charlie was her man
An ornerier old son of a gun
Never set foot upon this land
Her patience was of unknown limit
For my father and his sibs
While old Charlie sat upon his haunches
A busy playin crib
Nestled in a tiny shack
Wolfcreek just down the trail
Content with havin to darn his socks
And fetch water by pail
A tribute to true grit she was
With her hand upon the plow
Her hair wrapped in a red bandanna
As she’s off to milk the cow
With six wranglers to feed by 5.00 am
And kids to school by eight
She never stopped to pause or chat
For fear that they’d be late
The cold wind blowing, her nose is running
Her hands all blistered and chapped
And all old Charlie could think to say was
“where the hell’s my hat?”
I don’t know how Anna would feel
About this tale of woe
But I’d have to think if she saw Charlie
She’ll tell him where to go
