
Way out in enchanted New Mexico,
Up where the sweet pinion grow,
On the rugged Sangre De Christo
A pack train traveled very slow.
The leader was a mighty big man,
A forest ranger known as a talker.
Of nature's land he was a fan,
His handle was Elliott Barker*.
He loved that virgin terrain
And enjoyed showing its beauty
To people simple and plain,
Or to big whigs, as was his duty.
This day he had a special guest
Who rode close behind his horse,
As they climbed toward the crest
And high up the mountain course.
His horse knew this narrow pass,
But it musta eaten moldy hay.
For danged if it didn't pass gas,
Loudly, every step of the way.
The wind up there can be bad--
Tearing at the land so fair.
But this day no breeze was had
And the backfire hung in the air.
Finally they reached a level place
And stopped for a needed rest.
The society lady in fancy lace
Dismounted at Barker's behest.
Afraid her dignity had been hurt
By all that noise and stink,
A hasty apology he did blurt
As he sensed his face turning pink.
I trust you'll forgive the smell
--a bad stomach ache, of course.
The lady blushed as her words fell,
Oh, my, I thought it was your horse.