While you're sitting there high upon the fence
looking down inside the trap corral,
You see an 'ol wrangler pulling on his reins
Separating the herd as he has done for a while.

His face is tattered and worn; His clothes are faded
With the colors from the blowing sand,
He lets out a holler and his dog runs in
Just in time to give him a hand.

The horses are divided into their own corrals
And his dog is laying in the shade,
He then ties up his ragged pony and heads
over to see what the camp-cooky has made.

He pours himself a cup of hot black coffee
That smells almost as bad as the herd,
A sour look he gives the cook as he mozies
back to his pony without a word.

He then takes the last sip of coffee
From his old tin cup,
Then gives a whistle to his dog and says;
" Lets go round 'em Up "...