Rocks And Cows

While recently listening to the radio rolling down the boulevard on my daily routine, I heard some conversations about a guy in Minnesota who was invited to join the efforts of a certain campaign to occupy the White House for a few years. I have never heard of this guy before, but I imagine those of you who live in Minnesota are pretty familiar with him. This man made comments about the political demographics in the state that he governs. He pointed out the rural areas of the state and said, “It’s mostly rocks and cows that are in that area.” Well, okay… never mind that those areas are also comprised of the hardworking families that come from generations of proud Minnesotans. Ranchers, farmers, truckers, and countless others who work hard and pay taxes to a man who wishes to dictate how their money should be spent – and how their lives should be lived. A comment like his “rocks and cows” comment implies a stunning disregard and perhaps disdain for a massive and crucial portion of the population in his state. The folks in those rural areas are not “smelly Walmart people,” and they aren’t “deplorable,” either. Rural people aren’t rocks, and they certainly aren’t cows. Not one to let a good catch phrase pass me by, I thought I might write this poem about a symbolic portrayal of a bull-hauler who works himself thin to support a way of life he knows and loves, while also being expected to fund the opulent lifestyle of a disconnected politician enjoying the fruits of another man’s labor. Our streets are made of rocks. My meals are made of cows. And I appreciate the folks who bring such things into my daily routine. Photo credit goes to our very own 10-4 contributor and friend Stephanie Haas.

ROCKS AND COWS
By Trevor Hardwick

Denim jeans and a pearl-snap shirt,
Leather boots, and bills that hurt.
A trailer full of future meals,
A bull rack, ridin’ eighteen wheels.

He loaded in the Land of Lakes,
With thirty head of future steaks.
Generations paved the way,
Of hauling cattle, straw and hay.

But over there, in ol’ St. Paul,
They don’t seem to care at all.
They’re lost in that which they espouse,
While he’s living with the rocks and cows.

Rocks that pave the interstate,
And cows that fill the dinner plate.
Both are how he makes his pay,
He’s proud that he was raised that way.

His paycheck barely pays the bills,
For wear and tear, and tires and wheels.
The things he needs to keep his haul,
And a big brick mansion in St. Paul.

He’s overlooked by politicians,
And clinging to his pre-emissions.
He’s earned the sweat upon his brows,
Out there with the rocks and cows.

They’ll never set foot in his town,
But they’ll try to shut his diesel down.
While dining on their steaks and wine,
They’re robbing him of his last dime.

The man who rules the North Star State,
Is now somebody’s running-mate.
They only seek to gain control,
But a bull-rack wants to rock and roll!

Those faded jeans and cowboy boots,
The hay bales, and the cattle chutes.
Those pre-emissions diesel clouds,
Are out there with the rocks and cows.

They want more than he’s got to give,
To supplement their narrative.
But he just wants to live his life,
And raise his kids and love his wife.

The politician doesn’t care,
Behind brick walls, in a leather chair.
The trucker rides a worn-out seat,
On taxpayer funded, torn-up streets.

Rocks make up that mansion there,
And cows adorn that leather chair.
The irony just fits, somehow,
They live among the rocks and cows.