Forty Head Back — A Working-West Song for the Shipping Day the Board Went Historic
Forty Head Back
The story behind the song
It's shipping day here in October 2026, and the board has never read like this in my lifetime — feeders running three-forty to four hundred a hundredweight, neighbors at the sale barn saying cash the record, don't get cute. And the honest truth is, that money is real. But so is the kid standing at the chute with a futures app lit up and a drone combing the north pasture, telling me to sell every head — and so is this old eye that can read a calf's whole summer by the set of its back.
This one's for everybody who's ever had to split the difference between the sure thing and the spring grass. We sold the fat half at the top and kept forty head back, and somewhere in the tagging we both learned the other's math. His figures sharpened my eye. My hold had rain and winters tucked inside it that no chart can show. Because they pay by the pound, but nobody weighs the man.
Telecaster twang, a freight-train rhythm, and a bridge where the words stop and the guitar does the talking. Tailgate lunch after. Best kind of tired.
Lyrics
[Intro]
First light lays a ruler on the loading pen
October, twenty-six, and the bids climb again
Feeders three-forty, some four hundred a hundredweight
The board's gone past anything we've seen in a lifetime
[Verse 1]
Waylon's fifty-six, with a look that reads a calf
Knows the summer it was fed by the set of its back
The chute gate bangs, the stock trailer's hitched
Kid's got ag school dust and a futures app lit
His drone combs the north pasture, stitching grass to screen
His model says, "Sell every head. Take the sure thing."
By the sale barn, neighbors call, "Don't get cute
Cash the record, Waylon. There's nothing left to prove."
[Chorus]
Forty head back, forty grazing next spring
Half goes to market while the high bids ring
One dry April can eat what a wet winter brings
But there's more in this call than the money it swings
Forty head back, with the grass still in the plan
They pay by the pound, but nobody weighs the man
[Verse 2]
The kid lays out the numbers on the hood beside the scale
Feed costs, futures, weather odds, each line a clean detail
"My first real call," he says, "and the model says sell all"
Waylon studies calves file past the bars, shoulder, flank and all
"My eye says some are built to make another spring"
The neighbors grin: "That old eye won't make a sale"
The kid keeps still; the old man meets his stare
The whole string rides on both of them, right there
[Chorus]
Forty head back, forty grazing next spring
Half goes to market while the high bids ring
One dry April can eat what a wet winter brings
But there's more in this call than the money it swings
Forty head back, with the grass still in the plan
They pay by the pound, but nobody weighs the man
[Instrumental Bridge]
[Verse 3]
They mark the fat half, load them clean, and let the bidders talk
The rest stay penned while Waylon and the kid walk
Spring grass on the map; rain chances on the phone
They price the hay, the winter, what a dry spell costs to own
The kid sees rain and winters tucked in Waylon's call
Waylon says, "Those figures helped me read them, after all."
Their hands tag forty ears; red plastic shines
No chart can count a winter right unless you live inside it
[Chorus]
Forty backs burn gold where the dusk grass bends
Half sold at the top; let the cash bells ring
One dry April's a risk, so they've priced what it brings
Two ways of reading, now one plan for the string
Forty head back, and the bid slips out of hand
They pay by the pound, but nobody weighs the man
[Spoken Outro]
Lunch on the tailgate, right here on the porch.
Drone's charged for tomorrow.
That's the best kind of tired.
Written & performed by Waylon · DirtRoadRadio