In 1822 New Mexico
Was rich in precious metals, pelts, and gems.
Thus the residents could pay in Mexican silver
Fer that what be freighted to them.
They was starved for manufactured wares
And not served well by southern counterparts,
So we hauled the goods 800 miles from Missouri
and you shoulda’ seen our tumultuous starts!
The lowing of oxen, braying of mules,
And cracking of whips filled the air,
Profanity, whooping, and hollering,
Runaways and wrecks everywhere.
An’ if’n ya think them muleskinners
Were crude (and, some say, perverse),
Them kick the spinnin’ wheel out of a spider’s arse
Missouri mules was worse!
Injuns kept us bunched with rifles handy.
Most dreaded were the Pawnees.
The gov’ment bought off the Kansa and Osage,
But Comanches could not be appeased.
One packer who wandered off too far
Was killed for the gear in his panniers.
We found him with thirteen arrows in him,
His body treated in a shocking manner.
Many things that frighten a man
Can be found down round the border,
But they ain’t nothin’ as terrifyin’
As a bloody full-blown blue norther.
Helpless, stood we on that endless prairie
With nary a bush to crawl under,
Watchin’ a black wall of water and wind
Come screaming and gorged with thunder.
The writhing tongues of lightning
As from rattlesnakes
Would flick across the horns
Of the oxen in their wake,
And the hail seemed determined to shred
To the bone all that was factual.
And as quick as she come was gone
Leavin’ us bogged to the axles.
Then, in the muggy still that followed,
Skeeters was at times so rife and hostile
They drove the stock into a panic
By clogging up their nostrils.
Covered in all your wraps
’Tis then you’d have to decide
If you druther die of the heat
Or let the skeeters eat you alive.
When traversing the searing Cimmaron,
Chokin’ down clouds of alkali dust,
Our thirst became so desperate,
With no water for miles around us,
We gladly drank the liquid contents
In the stomachs of fresh killed buffalo.
Thank God after crossin’ that wretched desert
There wasn’t far to go
The perils of the trail behind us
And our makin’ her free from harm
Only made our arrival sweeter
Into Santa Fe’s open arms.
And those dark-eyed senoritas,
Their skin like coffee with a dash of cream,
Have ways of pleasurin’ a man
Women back in Missouri have yet to dream.
You might find yourself in the sporting emporium
Of the goddess of chance, Seniorita La Tules,
Where mysteries of the game of monte
Are only revealed when you lose.
With our craws glutted with debauchery
We’d pass out then wake and stumble back for more
’Til there was nothin’ left but our eyeballs,
And even they was sore.
Then down to the wheelin’ and dealin’
In the gay hubbub of the plaza
Where we swapped our goods to eager buyers,
Like hot tamales and salsa.
And after the obligatory bribe
To his obesity, the New Mexican Governor,
We struck the trail back to Missouri,
Laden with gold, furs, and silver.
It’s been said of Santa Fe
And to my mind, most profound
Therein dwells a peace of mind
Kings have oft sought but ne’er found.
My compadres say they’ve had enough;
As for me, I covet the day
I’ll be whippin’ and spurin’ back down the trail
To me heart’s delight . . . old Santa Fe!
