We were thirty posts from the big Twelve Grand,
Hard along the MOAB Trail;
We were seasoned hands of the MOAB kind,
And none of us was frail
So when Mom said, "Boys,
It's time to move,
Make 'em up and move along!"
We were ready with the BS brand
And we started up right strong.

Now one er two had had the flu
An' wasn't feeling spry.
But every hand in MOAB land
Said they'd damn well give a try.
So they heated up their tired brains,
And they stretched another strand
'Cuz the Boss, Ole Maw, had laid out the law
We was bound to make twelve grand.

Ole BWL, well, it's hard to tell,
How he come to meet his fate
He was typin' hot, but he hits some pots,
And ev'ything had ter wait.
But the rest of, hell, we understood,
What pot can do to a man;
So we tightened our belts, and oiled our pelts,
Heading on toward the big Twelve Grand.

Now, big Rapaire, he was feelin' rare,
And was riding in top form.
He could write great stuff full of fancy fluff,
Far above the av'rage norm.
But the Idaho Legion sent out a call,
Said they needed every hand,
So he called in sick (though Mom knew his tricks)
Left one less fer the ole Twelve Grand.

There's a few of still, and we onward spill,
Letting BS bravely fly,
And we'll raise our toasts, and make our posts,
An' we'll reach Twelve Grand er die!
And we ain't too neat but we'll keep our feet
And will bravely make a stand
Heading into time, till we cross the line
And the MOAB makes Twelve Grand!

Pershing Montgolfier
Chansons and Work Songs from the Northwest"
1908, Messier and Messier, Paris