Good old Clint,
Rode his horse through the prairie,
In search of a few dollars more.
We were skint,
Riding bikes through the slagheaps,
Cast aside when they fired iron ore.
With no name,
He tracked down the bad guys,
Brought them in as he chewed a cigar,
With no shame,
We’d hunt bug-ugly grasshoppers,
Then lock ’em up tight in a jar.
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As kids, we were always playing cowboys in our mountains – the slagheaps – and I was always Clint Eastwood. The bounty was grasshoppers. We had to catch as many as we could with our jumpers.