Down where the ridges cut like stone, And morning frost sets deep into bone.

Where fences stretch and nature stays, You’ll earn your keep in unseen ways.

He’s up before the kettle boils, His life is sweat, and dust, and toil.

No time for flash, or big-day tales, The work comes first; and then beers ’n ales.

The dogs know hand, the horse knows track, The hills and lakes are home, he won’t look back.

He’s worn that same flannel ten years, they say, “Still does the job, Moreporks all the way.”

He’ll fix a gate with Number 8 wire, And light a fire with nothing but desire.

He fishes quiet, skis the steep, Walks the ridgelines most wouldn't dare peep.

He drives stick, cooks his meat rare, Puts food on the table with skill and care.

Distant from the outside, but his heart runs deep, For dogs, for land, and all those who’ll keep.

After a hard day’s work you’ll hear the clink of cheers, “Only Speight’s down here boy, no other beers.”

It’s a simple life, he’ll do what he can, Head high, feet steady: a Southern Man.

AW25 D1 28.05.25