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THE COLLECTION
He had a bunch of old cowboy spurs
That were just so very fine,
And he gave them all to me by and by
When it finally had become the time.
They were all prized possessions
Of a boot and saddle maker's life.
Each one had a story to tell,
If you could get it told, from him or his wife.
That collection of cowboy spurs so grand.
A custom perch for each and every one
On cactus spines and candle stands.
The envy of many an old puncher
Who'd given his away or lost 'em over time.
You could watch 'em drool over the hand-crafted silver
And spin the rowels to hear their chime.
There was branded pairs like Blanchards
And Bohlins, Duckworths and Crockett.
There was Kellys and Garcias and more.
All on the shelf, ceptin' the one he kept in his pocket.
It was once a beautiful silver inlaid Gal-leg set
That would make a cowboy walk with a gait.
Over time and more than a few owners,
It became just a single spur that had lost it's mate.
The loneliness of a "Onesy" is hard to describe.
Sorta like havin' a body without a side.
So he held on to it day after day and hunted for its partner,
All the while just hopin' it hadn't died.
Goin' through the barrels - first one and then the next
At each and every bit n spur show.
Cuz the one that got away just might be lookin too,
For the other that was lost so long ago.
Now they've all been uprooted & moved
A thousand miles from his estate to mine.
But I can't tell the tale of how they came to be
Or how hard they were to find.
And that one solitary yoke, shank and rowel
That constituted a cowboys motivatin' iron -
Well, now it sits lonely on the shelf without a mate,
But still, none the less admired.
THE BOOTMAKER
He was a saddle maker on the side,
But boots were his real joy and pride.
He could take an old piece of leather,
Cut it up and stitch it all back together.
But it wouldn't end up lookin' the same as it did.
It'd come out looking like fancy footwear instead.
It'd come out looking like fancy footwear instead.
High heals to keep your feet in the stirrups,
And stitchin' sweetern' a bucket of maple syrup.
Tops so tall you could wade the water without any strife,
Keepin' your legs dry while still sheathin' your Bowie knife.
Toe bugs or not - your choice unless they're contest entered.
But either way, you'll find them always perfectly centered.
Artistic craftsmanship 40 hours from start to end.
If you want 'em faster you're just out of luck my friend.
You see ready-made boots, from the store or catalog,
Can be had quick as the sun burns off the mornin' fog.
But if it's quality you want, you'll find patience is it's own reward.
A pair of Reynold's boots on your feet and your horse sense will be restored.
TALKIN' BOOTS (If Boots Could Talk)
We boots were made for talkin'
And talkin' is what we did.
We'd talk to anyone wantin' to listen
And this is what we said.
We were made by a cowboy cobbler
Who was born a hundred years late.
This cowboy artist made us pop'lar
All first class - none second rate.
A - Double - R stamped inside
Proof of hand-made originality.
Artistic, masterful and certified
For everyday or any formality.
Some of us were made for fancy Dans
And some were made for workin' blokes.
But every piece of hide that touched his hands
Was wearable art for city dudes or cowpokes.
Lone Stars, Flags and Snake Skin Filigree,
Patterns to suit any style or taste.
From butterflies to Army Ranger enlistees,
Some with seamless sides and some interlaced.
We talked up proud and boastful
And we talked soft and subtle.
But we always said a mouthful
Never quiet - even with a muzzle.
You see, the owners was proud to wear us
And show us off to passersby.
He was a master and we were his witness
Ready, willing and able to testify.
Yes, we boots were made for talkin
But you had to listen with your eyes.
'Cuz some of us weren't made for walkin'
But that should come as no surprise.
So on your feet or up on a pedestal
We boots were something to admire.
Magnificent, spectacular and incredible
Now, 'nuff said, we thinks we will retire.
THE FIGPICKER TALE
Figpickers is the term he applied to them
He used it quite frequently and with disgust
Mostly for rounders, deadbeats and scum
Like the guy with shiny new wheels on a car full of rust
He could tell you a story about a big fat dead guy
And how they got all 500 pounds of him out the door
Gross as it was you'd laugh until you found a tear in your eye
And the way he'd tell it, you'd always be ready for more.
A life of dealing with society's bottom-of-the-barrel
And still he could find a way to share the funny side
No kinda talk for church or to write a Christmas carol
But he could sure make your funny-bone go wild.
Now to be fair, it wasn't just the lower class he adorned
Working class and well-to-do folks got the label too
It might have been me if I hadn't been forewarned
Could've been your neighbor or you or the guy in the front pew.
You see it sorta all depended upon what you did
And not so much who you were or wanted to be
Even the Vice President was a figpicker when his spelling sorta slid
And the guy with the five thousand dollar saddle just to watch TV
The dumb and the dumber and any one of our number
Could all be figpickers the way he'd tell it
It was a way to say do it better and don't slumber
Do it right, put your teeth together and grit.
But some just can't seem to get it - no matter what
And that's the way it is in this figpicker land
Or else we'd never get that big belly laugh deep down in our gut
So tell the man to take a bow and give him a hand.
And tell us another tale of a figpicker escapade
Like the city dude with his hat on backwards
Or the trooper with a knife handle but no blade
When it comes to figpicker stories he was chairman of the board.
Now figs ain't bad and he'd sure tell you that
And I suppose somebody has to get 'em picked
So this ain't no slight on them who wear the hat
But those who wear the brand probably need to have their butts kicked.
ARBUCKLES IN THE CUP
It was genuine Cowboy Coffee he had in that cup
And that tells you most of what you need to know
He had his standards from the old-school club
Premium java, not Coors or Michelob.
It was Hermann Oak leather he put on those soles
And that says more than words alone
It had to be the best even if the boots were old
He was one of a kind with no way to clone
Whether he was driving a Cadillac or an old pickup truck
You always knew which way he was going
On the right path regardless of others in the bunch
No matter the amount of their groaning or crowing.
He called her "Lady" even though she was only a canine
His customs & manner say more than any words can
Rough on the outside but inside - nothing but high-gloss shine
And that says a lot about the measure of the man
In years past he wore a badge on his chest
But boots and saddles were his trade in the end
And to know him all these years - who would have guessed
I'm the lucky one - to have called him friend
Bonded over horseflesh, cowhide and Arbuckles grind
A treasured friendship over much too soon
A man, a century out of date, is a rare find
Rest in peace, my friend, on the other side of the moon.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
ANGEL BOOTS
I've heard St. Pete has another gate off down the hill
Where livestock souls can enter into the everlast.
And a special bunkhouse where angel craftsmen mill,
Makin' and fixin' whatever is needed for those who've passed.
Rowels on spurs on boots on angel feet.
Maybe you ain't seen it yet, but you'll get your chance.
Cowboy angels are up there ridin', ropin' and dallyin' real neat,
Only takin' out time to do-si-do at the Saturday night dance
It ain't so strange, to think of such a sight;
Angels wearing boots made out of cowhide.
And, you know, it is entirely possible and just might
Be the only way St. Pete would allow them to ride.
'Cause a flurry of flutterin' wings battin' around a cow heard,
Can cause a sure-fire stampede, disrupting heavenly tranquility.
And you know the Almighty would never concur
With such chaotic behavior in his facility.
And how would an angel wrangle the ghost herds in the sky,
If he didn't have a good and trusty cow pony?
And if he didn't have a good pair of boots, he sure couldn't ride.
So let's not forget to add a pair of spurs with rowels in harmony.
'Cause no western angel worth his salt would ever get by
With just a robe, a halo and a pair of wings.
Sure, they're necessary for floatin' across the sky,
But cowboy angels just feel plumb naked without the jingle & the ring.
And now they ain't got nothing to fear when it comes to cowboy gear.
'Cause Heaven is mighty full of top notch angel bootmakers,
Al Reynolds, George Martin, Charlie Bell and Tex Robin I hear.
So line up boys and get your orders in for a new pair of kickers.
You know all that I say is the honest-to-God, Heavenly truth,
But only in the kingdom 'cause the devil don't wear no footwear.
Now there may be a few faltering farriers down there to trim his hooves.
So when you cross over and see boots have no fear but if you see farriers just beware.
-----------------------------------------
THINGS A COWBOY LEARNS IN LIFE
People behind you always left home ten minutes too late,
And people in front of you are pure idiots.
Your dog is your best friend - until someone else has a cookie.
And burned toast is always better with jelly on it.
Herd mentality is not just limited to animals,
And some horses I know make better friends.
Boots always fit better when they're older,
But you still can't take 'em with you in the end.
When training a horse or a dog,
It is wise to always carry a biscuit.
Life would be so much easier,
If I could just win the jackpot on the quick-pick.
Little children do much better with just a little encouragement.
Adults do too for that matter.
Diesel tractors don't like the cold.
And flapjacks are better with homemade batter.
A tattooed number on your arm is not so good.
But a skull and cross-bones is something to brag on.
Why anyone would ever want to do that befuddles me,
But there are more of them everyday, jumping on the wagon.
What used to hide in the closet for fear of discovery,
Now marches down the street, bold as anyone can be.
Squeeky wheels always get greased more often.
The circuses have all gone bust and the freaks we see for free.
The government always has our backs,
They're great for walking on.
A dude you can help but a gunsel is too far gone.
If politicians don't eat all their words, at least it should be enough to choke on.
It's a dog-gone shame a cowboy has to live all his life,
Before these lessons are fully learned.
Too soon old and too late smart,
And I should have saved at least half of what I earned.
_____________________________
ODE TO THE CHUCK WAGON
She's a good 'ol girl, my chuck wagon is.
No trail to follow, just what we got on the skizze.
But she'll be ready when the crew is done with biz.
She's a good 'ol girl, this chuck wagon of mine.
Lumbering along, just a little bit behind.
Pulled by two of my favorite trusty equine.
A good 'ol girl, she is, this Studebaker of old.
Always there in the rain, the heat and the cold.
A favorite gathering spot for the hands, I'm told.
I call her a girl, but she's a lady, oh so fine.
Built to turn an eye, she's my joy and pride.
To the cowboys, she's a welcome sign.
She never asks if her boot makes her rear look big.
Or if her bonnet matches the rest of her rig.
But her looks can sure make you git up and dance a jig.
Born in the year of Tom Sawyer's birth,
When Colonel Custer was put below the earth.
She's a good 'ol girl, still earning all she's worth.
She started life back in eighteen and seventy six.
But she's far from being a just a pile of sticks.
A few wrinkles here and there is something we can fix.
With love and care the surgery was begun, yes it was.
Cutting out all her cancer, using every one of my saws.
Transplanting new where needed and some just for cause.
She's a new girl now, ain't that right Shan,
With Studebaker green right from a can.
She'll be ready again when camp is filled with hands.
Low maintenance, she is, just grease her when she squeals.
She'll keep feedin' the hungry and the curious with tasty meals.
Yup, she's a pretty good 'ol girl, this cookbox on wheels.
-----------------------------------------
THE DUTCH OVEN
Bisquits and gravy on a cold, frosty morn
A cup of hot coffee held by tremblin' hands
Sun just comin' awake on the Little Bighorn
Dutch oven cookin', there is no other way
It was good enough for grandad
It's how he began each and every day
Cast iron sittin' just above the flame
The aroma of beef and beans
Nothing else will ever be the same
Chili verde or sweet apple cobbler
Bacon-wrapped chicken or sourdough bread
Everything's better, including the dish water
It's better than aluminum for rendering fat
And lasts longer than glass or tupperware
It'll even stop the space lazers if you wear it for a hat
The original non-stick if you treat it right
Good for washing out socks when the meal's all et
And darn near bullet proof on a rowdy Saturday night
Dutch oven cookin' just can't be beat
Not by microwaves, nor propane
Or even by the sun's burning heat
Yessiree Buster, cast iron is the only way to go
Git you a good old cowboy-approved Dutch oven
Set up camp and git ready to do-si-do
------------------------------------------
THE TRAIN THAT CARRIED LINCOLN HOME
I am The United States, it is the name I bear
I am moving westward for all to see
I am the first and the last and I am rare
I am carrying father & son to rest in peace
Bonfires light the way ahead along the route
Forward we go, moving from a darkened past
Black & White side by side, their anger mute
Until one million say goodbye, this trip will last
Banners and wreaths with flags at half-mast
Two caskets bound for a Springfield tomb
I am the train running from the past
I am the train carrying Abe and Willie home
Under the arches and over the grief
Past mourners, soldiers and the newly freed
Slowly for track-side viewings so very brief
Past the bonfires, then back up to speed
Silent and still they lay, hour after hour
Four hundred cities and towns along the way
A giant of a man and a wilted flower
One million and more mourned that day
Banners and wreaths with flags at half-mast
Two caskets bound for a Springfield tomb
I am the train running from the past
I am the train carrying Abe and Willie home
I am The United States, it is the name I bear
I am moving westward for all to see
I am the first and the last and I am rare
I am carrying father & son to rest in peace
Bonfires light the way ahead along the route
Forward we go, moving from a darkened past
Black & White side by side, their anger mute
Until one million say goodbye, this trip will last
Banners and wreaths with flags at half-mast
Two caskets bound for a Springfield tomb
I am the train running from the past
I am the train carrying Abe and Willie home
Under the arches and over the grief
Past mourners, soldiers and the newly freed
Slowly for track-side viewings so very brief
Past the bonfires, then back up to speed
Silent and still they lay, hour after hour
Four hundred cities and towns along the way
A giant of a man and a wilted flower
One million and more mourned that day
Banners and wreaths with flags at half-mast
Two caskets bound for a Springfield tomb
I am the train running from the past
I am the train carrying Abe and Willie home
----------------------------------------
THE SADDLE MAKER
Years ago I'd sit for hours watching him make this saddle
In the shop, up the hill, out behind Mom's
Sometimes he'd say sit here with both legs astraddle
We'd talk about horses, cowboys, dudes and Vietnam.
I'd sit and sit and then sit another spell
Each time he'd ask me, "now how does it feel?"
He'd carve and carve and then carve another spell
No hurry to finish, but it was sure going to be real.
Handmade saddles take their time and they tell you when
When it's time to cut, stamp, sew, stretch or lace
It takes a mighty patient artist to listen and pay attention
So when he's done you can show off that smile on your face.
Now I sit for hours in that same saddle and never tire
Little did I know it was being molded to my particular bend
He knew his target customer, the guy who would eventually be the buyer
I only thought I was helpin' out a friend.
Ridin' across the desert for fun or chasing after the herd
I'm always mighty grateful for the time and care that was built in
And I miss the long visits in the shop amongst the hides, skinned or furred
But not all were cowhides, sometimes we'd talk about sharkskin.
Now I look at that saddle and all the boots I had him make
There's that tooled and stamped canteen hanging on the hook
And the spur straps I need to leave and never take
Cowboy chinks with fringe - another from his playbook.
But what I treasure most is the way he taught me
Without me even knowing I was the learner
He just let me think I was passin' time, like drinkin' tea
He was that kind of a guy, a genuine friend, not a burner
He may have passed on but he's still here in spirit
And I have enough of his craft to remind me
Yes, they're all still talkin' - talkin' loud enough for all to hear it
They're sayin' "there'll never be another like him, just wait and see."
_________________________________
Years ago I'd sit for hours watching him make this saddle
In the shop, up the hill, out behind Mom's
Sometimes he'd say sit here with both legs astraddle
We'd talk about horses, cowboys, dudes and Vietnam.
I'd sit and sit and then sit another spell
Each time he'd ask me, "now how does it feel?"
He'd carve and carve and then carve another spell
No hurry to finish, but it was sure going to be real.
Handmade saddles take their time and they tell you when
When it's time to cut, stamp, sew, stretch or lace
It takes a mighty patient artist to listen and pay attention
So when he's done you can show off that smile on your face.
Now I sit for hours in that same saddle and never tire
Little did I know it was being molded to my particular bend
He knew his target customer, the guy who would eventually be the buyer
I only thought I was helpin' out a friend.
Ridin' across the desert for fun or chasing after the herd
I'm always mighty grateful for the time and care that was built in
And I miss the long visits in the shop amongst the hides, skinned or furred
But not all were cowhides, sometimes we'd talk about sharkskin.
Now I look at that saddle and all the boots I had him make
There's that tooled and stamped canteen hanging on the hook
And the spur straps I need to leave and never take
Cowboy chinks with fringe - another from his playbook.
But what I treasure most is the way he taught me
Without me even knowing I was the learner
He just let me think I was passin' time, like drinkin' tea
He was that kind of a guy, a genuine friend, not a burner
He may have passed on but he's still here in spirit
And I have enough of his craft to remind me
Yes, they're all still talkin' - talkin' loud enough for all to hear it
They're sayin' "there'll never be another like him, just wait and see."
_________________________________
BOOTS WITH WINGS
Ever wonder what a cowboy looks like
When he crosses over Jordan as his life here is retired
Does he still need hat, boots & chaps?
Or is there some other official attire that is required?
How do you know he's a cowboy angel,
If his outfit looks the same as all the rest?
When all the angels are wearing gowns and wings
How do you know he's not a gunsel on a quest?
Well, I've pondered on that quite a lot
And here's what I've got to tell ya
Cowboys, here or there, are individuals
So, this here, is no bull I'm tryin' to sell ya
Chaps and vests are probably optional
Rawhide quirts have been tossed aside for no further need.
Cause a cowboy's use for a horse has been erased
And it's out-to-pasture for every cowboy's steed.
They most likely will keep their old J.B. Stetson
Just can't part with a good ol' friend that's been with you through and through.
But a cowboy's manly footwear may be somewhat altered,
To reflect the importance of the job they need to do.
You see a cowboy angel can't go 'round flappin wings all day.
There's just no need to fan the air and there's a danger as well.
Cowboys have eaten enough trail dust down on Earth.
So they just don't see no reward in turning Heaven into Hell.
Flutterin' about, to and fro and dartin' here and there,
Is just not the cowboy way.
Movin' fluidly and calmly, with purpose,
Is what gets a cowboy his pay.
So cowboy angel bootmakers have taken up the challenge
Leave it to them to be creative and pitch in.
They put those wings right where they ought to be,
On the cowboy's boot tops, hidden in the fancy stitchin'.
So when you see angels and some don't look quite right
It's probably not your imagination
And "No", you haven't gone down below
Those are cowboy angels - worthy of all your admiration
________________________________
Ever wonder what a cowboy looks like
When he crosses over Jordan as his life here is retired
Does he still need hat, boots & chaps?
Or is there some other official attire that is required?
How do you know he's a cowboy angel,
If his outfit looks the same as all the rest?
When all the angels are wearing gowns and wings
How do you know he's not a gunsel on a quest?
Well, I've pondered on that quite a lot
And here's what I've got to tell ya
Cowboys, here or there, are individuals
So, this here, is no bull I'm tryin' to sell ya
Chaps and vests are probably optional
Rawhide quirts have been tossed aside for no further need.
Cause a cowboy's use for a horse has been erased
And it's out-to-pasture for every cowboy's steed.
They most likely will keep their old J.B. Stetson
Just can't part with a good ol' friend that's been with you through and through.
But a cowboy's manly footwear may be somewhat altered,
To reflect the importance of the job they need to do.
You see a cowboy angel can't go 'round flappin wings all day.
There's just no need to fan the air and there's a danger as well.
Cowboys have eaten enough trail dust down on Earth.
So they just don't see no reward in turning Heaven into Hell.
Flutterin' about, to and fro and dartin' here and there,
Is just not the cowboy way.
Movin' fluidly and calmly, with purpose,
Is what gets a cowboy his pay.
So cowboy angel bootmakers have taken up the challenge
Leave it to them to be creative and pitch in.
They put those wings right where they ought to be,
On the cowboy's boot tops, hidden in the fancy stitchin'.
So when you see angels and some don't look quite right
It's probably not your imagination
And "No", you haven't gone down below
Those are cowboy angels - worthy of all your admiration
________________________________
~ SOULSICK CINDY ~
She was a mare the way the story is told
With a foal at her side that wasn't very old
Beautiful to look at and smooth as glass
But it weren't long before she showed her sass
Cindy was her name and playing with your mind was her game
Start out with a willingness to go but then prentend to be lame
Trottin' along real fine and then suddenly just stop on a dime
She could elevate horse savvy to the sublime
She was big and strong and mighty classy
The look in her eyes said a sweet equine lassie
Cow sense, you bet, but somedays not yet
Spook, shake, shudder, quake and upset
She was smart as a grizzled old college professor
But the cowboy on her back needed to be a guesser
Fast as a jet whenever it suited her reason
Minute by minute she'd go in and out of season
Unsaddle, untack and turn her loose at the rail
She'd weave in and out around the turns over hill and dale
If the gate was open, you'd find her back in her stall
Waiting for you and a bucket of feed but that's not all
What a horse she was and what a horse she weren't
Couldn't figure her out. What voltage and what current?
She ran on full octane or she stood on all her brakes
A puzzlement, bewilderment or winner of the sweepstakes?
But I'll never forget the savvy she showed
On her good days, whether or not we rode
Or the way her shinny coat glowed in the sun
I'll always remember how she gave us a whole lot of fun
She was a mare the way the story is told
With a foal at her side that wasn't very old
Beautiful to look at and smooth as glass
But it weren't long before she showed her sass
Cindy was her name and playing with your mind was her game
Start out with a willingness to go but then prentend to be lame
Trottin' along real fine and then suddenly just stop on a dime
She could elevate horse savvy to the sublime
She was big and strong and mighty classy
The look in her eyes said a sweet equine lassie
Cow sense, you bet, but somedays not yet
Spook, shake, shudder, quake and upset
She was smart as a grizzled old college professor
But the cowboy on her back needed to be a guesser
Fast as a jet whenever it suited her reason
Minute by minute she'd go in and out of season
Unsaddle, untack and turn her loose at the rail
She'd weave in and out around the turns over hill and dale
If the gate was open, you'd find her back in her stall
Waiting for you and a bucket of feed but that's not all
What a horse she was and what a horse she weren't
Couldn't figure her out. What voltage and what current?
She ran on full octane or she stood on all her brakes
A puzzlement, bewilderment or winner of the sweepstakes?
But I'll never forget the savvy she showed
On her good days, whether or not we rode
Or the way her shinny coat glowed in the sun
I'll always remember how she gave us a whole lot of fun
________________________________
WAGON TONGUES
"Wagon tongues," is what I heard him say
Instantly I thought of my old cowboy days
My mind roamed in and out of years gone by
And I thought of all the roundups, wet or dry
There was the time I learned to let my horse do the work
And I remembered how Tyler liked to be a real jerk
Then I could almost taste ol' cooky's noon meals
Five-star cuisine hauled out to the camp on wheels
Just the thought of wagon tongues pointed at the north star
Thousands of episodes to fill up a cowboy's memoir
Ropin', brandin', sortin', doctorin' and everything
Twice a year, rain or shine, every fall and every spring
Then I thought of those spotted calves
And how cuttin' 'em out cut the herd in halves
All because the Mrs. liked 'em and she made 'em pets
She had to go and give 'em names, lest we might forget
I thought of the cattle market and the price of stock
And could we afford to put 'em on the auction block
I thought of the times when the cost of feed
Made it senseless to even try to breed
Why'd he have to go and say "wagon tongues?"
Livin' in the past, singin' songs already sung?
Bring me back to the here and now
Take my mind away from the range and the cow
So I asked him why that subject was on his mind
Was it part of his past too - how far behind?
Did he and I have some memories to share?
I wanted to know, when and where
So since I asked, he said, "this is why"
"I often speak my mind," then he paused with a sigh
"But no matter what I say, it get's distorted"
"By the old biddies in the neighborhood" he snorted.
His strange and unrelated thoughts were a puzzle
I wished I hadn't asked. I wished I had a muzzle
Wagon tongues and cow herds were on my mind
And here he was, talking 'bout womenkind
Again, I bit down and asked about his past
And then he let it all out - finally at last
He said, "those ol' biddies and their waggin' tongues will be the death of me"
To my chagrin, I decided it would be best if I just let it be.
__________________________
"Wagon tongues," is what I heard him say
Instantly I thought of my old cowboy days
My mind roamed in and out of years gone by
And I thought of all the roundups, wet or dry
There was the time I learned to let my horse do the work
And I remembered how Tyler liked to be a real jerk
Then I could almost taste ol' cooky's noon meals
Five-star cuisine hauled out to the camp on wheels
Just the thought of wagon tongues pointed at the north star
Thousands of episodes to fill up a cowboy's memoir
Ropin', brandin', sortin', doctorin' and everything
Twice a year, rain or shine, every fall and every spring
Then I thought of those spotted calves
And how cuttin' 'em out cut the herd in halves
All because the Mrs. liked 'em and she made 'em pets
She had to go and give 'em names, lest we might forget
I thought of the cattle market and the price of stock
And could we afford to put 'em on the auction block
I thought of the times when the cost of feed
Made it senseless to even try to breed
Why'd he have to go and say "wagon tongues?"
Livin' in the past, singin' songs already sung?
Bring me back to the here and now
Take my mind away from the range and the cow
So I asked him why that subject was on his mind
Was it part of his past too - how far behind?
Did he and I have some memories to share?
I wanted to know, when and where
So since I asked, he said, "this is why"
"I often speak my mind," then he paused with a sigh
"But no matter what I say, it get's distorted"
"By the old biddies in the neighborhood" he snorted.
His strange and unrelated thoughts were a puzzle
I wished I hadn't asked. I wished I had a muzzle
Wagon tongues and cow herds were on my mind
And here he was, talking 'bout womenkind
Again, I bit down and asked about his past
And then he let it all out - finally at last
He said, "those ol' biddies and their waggin' tongues will be the death of me"
To my chagrin, I decided it would be best if I just let it be.
__________________________
THE ONE THAT STARTED IT ALL
I heard my very first cowboy poem out in Arizona.
In a little place just a half-a jump off the ol' Hassayampa.
About two guys who reminded me of my dear ol' grandpa.
Two cowboys who didn't know nothin' 'bout the Dalai Lama.
But that don't mean they knew nothin' 'bout their spirits.
Both kinds - the kind from within and the kind you pour in.
And they knew that guy with the pitchfork was for sin.
So they sets up and goes about tryin' to do him in.
Now they was two good pals and it was the custom in those days,
To only have just one drink apiece in each and every place.
And that ain't bad 'ceptin' there were 40 places lined up along the way.
And that's just on one side - with 40 more goin' the other way.
Well, you know what happened 'cause the story has already been told.
But it was the first one I'd heard and even though it sounded bold,
I couldn't get it out of my mind - not for money or gold.
So I wrote down these lines in honor of those two gents of old.
Way up high were the yeller pines grow tall,
Buster Jig and Sandy Bob beat the devil and that's not all.
They made sure they had one hell of a brawl.
And anytime they can go back and look ol' Satan right in the eyeball.
Now this ain't no slight and it sure ain't no dig.
This here's a tribute to those two, either sober or after a swig.
If ever you're up in the Sierry Petes and you see two cowpokes smilin' big,
You'll know it's them two who beat the devil, Sandy Bob and Buster Jig.
______________________
I heard my very first cowboy poem out in Arizona.
In a little place just a half-a jump off the ol' Hassayampa.
About two guys who reminded me of my dear ol' grandpa.
Two cowboys who didn't know nothin' 'bout the Dalai Lama.
But that don't mean they knew nothin' 'bout their spirits.
Both kinds - the kind from within and the kind you pour in.
And they knew that guy with the pitchfork was for sin.
So they sets up and goes about tryin' to do him in.
Now they was two good pals and it was the custom in those days,
To only have just one drink apiece in each and every place.
And that ain't bad 'ceptin' there were 40 places lined up along the way.
And that's just on one side - with 40 more goin' the other way.
Well, you know what happened 'cause the story has already been told.
But it was the first one I'd heard and even though it sounded bold,
I couldn't get it out of my mind - not for money or gold.
So I wrote down these lines in honor of those two gents of old.
Way up high were the yeller pines grow tall,
Buster Jig and Sandy Bob beat the devil and that's not all.
They made sure they had one hell of a brawl.
And anytime they can go back and look ol' Satan right in the eyeball.
Now this ain't no slight and it sure ain't no dig.
This here's a tribute to those two, either sober or after a swig.
If ever you're up in the Sierry Petes and you see two cowpokes smilin' big,
You'll know it's them two who beat the devil, Sandy Bob and Buster Jig.
______________________
© 2023-2024 / Brian McNeal
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