Aw, what a picture.

There was this cowboy, all hat and spurs and chaps (woah there, Village People!)

Well sir, that cowboy was a-leanin' out of his saddle like a cottonwood tree leans when there's a Blue Norther a-blowing across the dad-gum plains.

And he was a-swingin' his rope at a couple of muley Haitians who had broken away from the herd and lit out fer daylight.

It's a hard life down on the border. The place is just a-runnin' wild with human livestock from every corner of the underdeveloped world.

What's a cowboy to do?

Why, drive 'em north, that's what.

As the pandemic, low wages, fentanyl and general laziness continue to crimp the supply of American workers, a big herd of Haitians should go for a good price in Chicago or Boston or Queens, New York City, where restaurants owners need meat on the hoof to chop vegetables, fry eggs, make pizzas, wait tables and carry out the dad-gum trash.

Round up them Haitians, cowboy, and point 'em north to the nursing homes and landscaping companies of Michigan. Take 'em to the chicken-pluckin' plants of Arkansas and the cat food canneries of Iowa.

Don't worry about feedin' the Haitians on the trip. If dad-gum longhorn cattle can live on dad-gum grass, then so can dad-gum Haitians, dad-gum it!

Oh, it's gonna be the old, good America all over again. Cattle drives north. Cowboys a-whoopin' and a-hollerin'. Herds of Haitians fording streams and stampeding when the lightning strikes. Whips.

When they get the herds of Haitians to the big cities, I don't think they ought to sell the Haitians to the highest bidder. That would be slavery, and nearly 60% of Americans believe slavery is wrong. Instead of selling the Haitians, put 'em in a big pen (pretty much like we do now) and let employers with minimum wage jobs come down and talk to the Haitians directly.

The negotiations won't take long. The employers will offer minimum wage. The grass-fed Haitians will accept because they've spent two months trekking across the plains eating grass. After that, it's just a matter of passing out the polo shirts with the company logo on the left breast

Back in the 19th century, Texas cattlemen found wild cattle roaming the plains. They rounded 'em up, drove 'em north and sold 'em. The cattle were free, just like the Haitians, so it didn't make any difference who claimed 'em, branded 'em and drove 'em to the railhead in Kansas. Back east, people wanted steak; that's all that mattered.

Now the country wants workers. It wants restaurant workers and nursing home workers, janitors and loading dock workers. The dad-gum Americans ain't too keen on doing that kind of work, but grass-fed Haitians will be on those jobs like a buzzard on a dead hog, particularly if they get a little encouragement from a cowboy who sits tall in the saddle with a whip in his hand.

And at night, we sit around the campfire, playing video games and whittling little Beyonce dolls out of sagebrush sticks, hardy cowboys not used to city ways.

And Ol' Bitter Creek Bill, he takes out his guitar and begins to sing.

"Whoopee ti yi yo

Git along you little Haitians

It's your misfortune and none of my own

Whoopee to yi yo

Git along you little Haitians

A restaurant or a factory will be your new home."

To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion, and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, is called "Devil's Willow: Dancing in the Ashes of America." It is available in paperback from Amazon.com, and for Nook, Kindle, and iBooks.

Photo credit: Snuffleupagus at Pixabay