I think I’ll tell a tail of a night it was so cold,to the pipe your hands would freeze.30 degrees below the O ,the wind was strong,from the north so strong.

Across the plain it swept except for us,it seemed the world it slept.As we took a trip in place of 18,000 foot it was,Tofind the fish in its place.To attempt to real it in was a chore you could abhor.Every night it seemed we rattled iron.looking for a bite to take.

For three months or more it was a nightly deed,this thankless task.

The cold,cold wind across the floor it swept with its sleet and snow,to make us cold as the ice upon our cheeks.

So once more in the hole we go to warm ourselves with work.Perhaps this time  we will clear the hole.T.D. it was so near.When the worm-out hit.In the S.C.R. it was,the act that cost so dear.

It’s too cold the Motorman ‘looed for refrigerated air.So to a briquette it turned the departed S.C.R.With Smoke and flames it left this world.To leave us here stuck so deep inside the hole.

So with a torch we warm the pipe lest we hear the Ice-plugs roar,as it blows clear of the pipe that’s in the hole.Once the collars are in the deep,it’s sure the pace we set will keep us all from sleep.

If not that then the sparks of gas will serve to clear our heads,as we rattle iron,throw chain,and make her bite!

With that done,pull slips,and grab a breath.What’s that son you think we’re done?Only a couple hundred more,Perhaps by dawn’s early morning light,we’ll cheer that the bottom’s reached.

When that’s done we’ll stretch and yawn and say I could do a couple hundred more.But I’d advice against such words you hear?Lest the ‘Pusher hear you brag.And tell you,”So you’ll rattle iron,once more there son.I want it all out of the hole!”

“Pump a slug there son to keep the mud down in the hole.It’s penny’s cost I grieve.”.With a happy grin he says,”Grab leed tongs.We have a schedule too keep.Of this pipe I want to see the other end,which is so deep.

The slips can ride no need to pull,you’ll get real full,of exercise tonight.The tongs are popped no to need to mess with the latch.As worms are want to do.

And with those words he turns as he bids us ado,”To sleep I go.Give me no call,I’m off to saw some logs,for sure I won’t call you!Lest work I find for you!”

Down the steps he bounds with glee in every step,as a breathe we breath of relief he’s gone.To dream no doubt of a wet string on a dark and rainy night.

The Driller rev.’s the motors,and calls above the hum,”Are you ready,boys?!Let us rattle iron,and put his ass too sleep!”

And so we go too and fro’.To catch the fish so deep.While the wind do blow down the plains that ain’t so steep.

Beating pipe for a high pitched ring of a dry string,with no fish upon the end.And so it goes still stuck there in the deep.This bit of steel stuck there in the ground.

Perhaps,we’ll go and Mill it from the ground!Because time is gold,these trips get old,so deep beneath the ground.

One more time we’ll make’er bite and spin the pipe around,until it jumps,and rack it on the boards.Until we rack two-hundred back,straight in rows,each one by one.

So it goes each and every night after every one.Well I think I’ll close this tale,before it goes and bores us all to hell!