Come fly with me, Lord, in the bleak open sky,
as I hang around waitin’ for somethin’ to die.
Good pardners are scarce for a drifter like me
atwixt the hot sun and the barren prairie.
Some critter’ll cash in as we fly across—
like a jackrabbit or, if we’re lucky, a hoss.
But then when it does, I won’t rush to the trough.
I’ll circle politely, a little ways off.
You get first crack, Lord, ’cuz I ain’t averse
to showin’ some manners—and You saw it first.
So go have Your tuck out, and don’t mind me none,
when I smell that it’s ripe then it’s time for my run.
Then I’ll come down and sure be delighted to see
that You, in Your Grace, left the best part for me.