Ballad of a Wildcatter
With
the dawn of '75,
A new man came to town.
He had a goal and
would survive.
No one could bring him down.
A tale he'd
heard of fields of gold
lit a fire in his soul.
But, this was
not a rock to hold -
black liquid from a hole.
Without a
thought, he made to part
his household and his life.
He had no
ties to bind his heart,
no children and no wife.
So he,
with his horse beneath him,
supplies tied to a mule,
set off on
faith and on a whim
to find the next great fuel.
Roads he
traveled were few and rough,
loggers had left their mark.
The
journey was hard, he was tough -
nothing could dim the
spark.
Stretched before him, hill upon hill,
an endless sea
of green.
He beat the mountains with his will -
such a sight to
be seen.
When first he came upon the town
there wasn't much
in view.
A derrick that had fallen down,
some houses that were
new.
He set out first to buy a lease.
A farmer sold him
rights.
A shack, he built, to live in peace
and keep him warm
on nights.
A divining rod in one hand.
The fates were at
their best.
He tried it twice, his third hit sand -
fulfilled,
was his first quest.
The oil, it flowed in rivers.
He
stored it in a drum.
Although soon, it came in sputters,
he
knew that more would come.
So, kicking down another well,
he
earned enough to live.
A nitro blast broke through the shell,
his
first still had to give.
And so it went, the days flew
past.
His wells produced their gold.
The farmer, now, had hoed
his last.
The land and lease were sold.
But never fear when
fate is near,
the man kept hold his due.
He spent his earnings
for the year,
bought land and lease, house too!
He settled
in quite comfortably
and went to town to dine.
He met a girl
who caught his eye,
said "I will make you mine."
Their
love was deeper than the drill
that bored its way to fame.
Nine
months they lived alone, until
another treasure came.
So
happy in his life was he
the years went by unchecked.
Unnoticed
went the muddy sea,
the town, in grime, bedecked.
‘Til
one day, when he cast his eye
along the hills, once grand.
Where
there had been great trees on high,
now derricks claimed the
land.
He didn't recognize this place.
In just a little
time,
it started as a land of grace,
but now, -- Oh, what a
crime!
From where had all the people come?
And what was all
that noise?
The town became a city from
the hopes of oil field
boys.
Wooden barrels marked the landscape.
Pipes threaded
every hill.
Flatboats and rafts, so close they scraped,
hauled
wealth that paid the bills.
The man accepted change in
stride.
The city, more it grew.
Gas pressure dropped, it turned
the tide.
So pumping was the clue.
Overnight, a few made
fortunes.
While others' lives were lost.
The man stuck to his
mission,
no matter what the cost.
And so he and his
family
worked hard both day and night.
Up grew the son, most
hardily,
with oil fields in his sight.
Side by side they
would work the jacks,
their heartbeats throbbed as one.
The
oil, soon, left town on tracks -
the simpler days were done.
When
pumping failed to draw a drop,
the "five spot" came in
hand.
The flooded ground gave up its crop -
supplied more than
demand.
One day a sound ripped o'er the field,
far worse
than any gun.
The man ran up and then he kneeled -
he'd lost
his only son.
The grief he felt was much relieved
by
working on the hill.
His wife had faith and she believed
their
son was with them still.
Ten thousand wells now lined the
town
he'd come to years before.
And when the fever settled
down
deep roots held tight the core.
As the oil dwindled
steadily,
so too his wife's faint breaths.
And once again alone
was he.
He mourned his lover's death.
The man, he looked
with shadowed eyes
out on the shifting climes.
When most the
local wells were dry,
refining changed the times.
So the
oil tanks and tall smokestacks
grew up as, long ago,
the
derricks and the pumping jacks
first tamed the black gold's
flow.
Survive he couldn't, in this day.
The fire left his
soul.
He walked the fields, fate led the way.
They found him on
the hill.