All Hem No Sleeve

Some own or claim large tracts of land,
Rights to wells or springs, rights to hunt.

Yeh, right. What you have’s what you can
Get some help to keep the rest off—

No one holds the field on their own—
No one keeps sole hold of a herd,

Not with a horse and not with guns.
You need help, and your claims are yours

By the might of your kin and friends.
As for the folks that you run off,

Or ride herd on, or keep cooped up,
They brood, in the main, or get lost.

There are those odd souls who don’t quite
Get it—don’t fight you (much), won’t leave

For good, but hang out at the edge
Of your claims, to beg or to thieve.

If these look strange in the rare glimpse
You get of them, it’s how they’re dressed—

From far off, they could be you, or
One of your serfs or cast-out tramps,

But they just sit there, do no work,
And their coats are all hem, no sleeve.