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The Picker-Up

Edward S. Sorenson

When the clips are clipping fast,
    Where the fleeces drop,
And the stands are, first to last,
    Like a blanket shop.
One amongst the shearers cast.
Thumps his name as he goes past—
    Wop Wop.

Every call of “Wool away!”
    Makes him skip and hop,
Grab the fleece without delay,
    Throw it with a flop;
Up and down the board all day,
Bounding’ to the shearers’ bray—
    Wop Wop.

Feet encased in moccasins,
    With the wool on top,
From the tick each run begins,
    Got no time to stop;
Ever up and down he spins,
Rushing to and from the bins—
    Wop Wop.

Pieces, fleeces, belly-wool,
    Stains and locks a-slop,
Keep him ever off the stool,
    Gathering the crop;
Tool of drummer, gun and fool,
Darting, dancing, never cool,
    Wop Wop.

When the classer growls afar,
    “Spread ‘em out, you sop!”
When the shearers yell for tar,
    Where they rip or chop,
With long leaps that shake and jar,
Goes the flying pick-up star,
    Wop Wop.

Sweeping here and tarring there,
    With his broom and mop,
Sudden yells from everywhere
    Make him jump and prop,
Keep him on his jog austere
Through the dusty atmosphere,
    Wop Wop.

At the bell or whistle-o,
    He’s alert to pop
‘Cross the board as Combs and Co.
    Off their fleeces lop;
Then he whizzes to and fro
With a wild fortissimo,
    Wop Wop.

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