Cowboy poetry.

I like this. Thanks, Dyslexia.

Twenty five years ago I was driving a woman to see her brother in the state mental hospital. We pulled off the highway and entered a complex of artistically curving roads, looking for Building 42 A.

In the parking lot for that building a guy about sixty, dressed as a gunslinger with a vest and chaps and holsters--but no guns--was practicing Draw and Wheel and Fire and Exalt, Draw and Wheel and Fire and Exaul.

Because he was incarcerated, he was free to pretend.

Way out in enchanted New Mexico,
Up where the sweet pinion grow,
On the rugged Sangre De Christo
A pack train traveled very slow.

The leader was a mighty big man,
A forest ranger known as a talker.
Of nature's land he was a fan,
His handle was Elliott Barker.

He loved that virgin terrain
And enjoyed showing its beauty
To people simple and plain,
Or to big whigs, as was his duty.

This day he had a special guest
Who rode close behind his horse,
As they climbed toward the crest
And high up the mountain course.

His horse knew this narrow pass,
But it musta eaten moldy hay.
For danged if it didn't pass gas,
Loudly, every step of the way.

The wind up there can be bad--
Tearing at the land so fair.
But this day no breeze was had
And the backfire hung in the air.

Finally they reached a level place
And stopped for a needed rest.
The society lady in fancy lace
Dismounted at Barker's behest.

Afraid her dignity had been hurt
By all that noise and stink,
A hasty apology he did blurt
As he sensed his face turning pink.

"I trust you'll forgive the smell
--a bad stomach ache, of course."
The lady blushed as her words fell,
"Oh, my, I thought it was your horse."
Stan Paregien -- Backfire

I was riding the Cyber Range on my old hoss Clicker, when I saw a sign that said Manure Happens, then it just gets thicker! Now if your full of fertilizer you could win a bumper sticker. Ithought to myself I could win one of those for sure. They aint hardly nothing I don't know about Manure! I've stepped in it and around it. I've shoveled it and spread it.I've inspected it hot and steamy, well now I've gone and said it! Theres a method to this madness if you will bear with me a while, as to how I became an expert on a fresh cow pile.It was all because of money and quite against my will that I started dogging heifers up and down the field. You should have seen the look of wonder on the other Waddies face, as I dissected Cowpies till you couldn't see a trace. Then my face would fill with anguish and a tear would cloud my eye as I wandered of searching for a fresh Cowpie. Although they couldn't guess my reasons, on one thing they could concur. I was undoubtedly an Expert when the subject was Manure! I'll let you in on the secret to the cause of all my ills. One of them heifers had swallowed ten, One Hundred Dollar Bills! How did I know they done it? There was no one else around, when I found my wallet, lying open on the ground. So I jumped to a conclusion, and the wrong one of course! It turned out the culprit was my Dad-blamed horse! So happy was the morning while shoveling out his stall, I came across my boodle, money clip and all. It was a little frayed in passing but I'd finally found my cure, and became a bonafide Expert, when the subject is Manure! By Ben McKenzie

Wow...I didn't know any of these poets, but I was inspired to Google a bit, and found a bunch from the genre. I particularily liked this one:

Michael S. Robinson -- But I Can't Say I Care Much for Cows

Us ol' cowboys savor spring's sweet kiss,
and know the nip of fall...
and we marvel at the mountains,
draped in white and standin' tall...

an' the summer's sure no stranger,
with her parched and dusty skin,
when the waterholes are puddles
and yer sippin' mud from tin.

And we know the whitefaced critters,
when they're snortin' streams of snot,
an' how, out here on the prairie,
we're the only friends they've got.

So we doctor them and mother 'em,
do artwork on their flanks.
Yet, in all my days cowboyin',
I ain't heard one single "Thanks."

Yep, them cows take lots for granted;
They're a selfish bunch for sure.
You can fill their guts with clover,
but they'll always ask for more.

And they're mighty low on gumption.
(It's the weakest of their traits.)
When they wanna go romancin',
they make us supply their dates.

So we pull their calves, and give 'em shots,
haul hay when snow's too deep.
And the shippin' time's no payoff,
when you're sellin' beef so cheap.

Who 'ould wanna be a cowboy.
Cows ain't capable of love.
Yet there's something in that curlin'
smoke and myriad stars above...

When the prairie's bathed in moonlight
and the herd is bedded down,
and the coyote's song's a soarin',
it's more glory than a crown.

Michael S. Robinson © Copyright

Interesting. With the exception of Dys, I don't know no real cowboys, but my dad was one. As I have been told, he sang stuff like:

Oh, be my rainbow,
I'm going down to Lynchburg town to take my baccer down.
The Old Apple Tree in the Orchard
Put my Little Shoes Away.

Not a cowboy song amongst the lot.

A friend of mine, a physician, just lost his dog to cancer. He wrote this poem for him.

For Amigo

Fall, bright moon with scattered rainclouds,
I bend to fetch my morning paper.
Dear friend no longer here to help,
Gone on to that Deep Sleep,
Jowls gently resting
On his soft, crossed paws
Forevermore