Monday, March 9, 2009
The Ranger Trilogy
The three poems consisting of (1)Texas Justice,(2) Ol' Slick Fork Saddle, and (3)The Ranger's Lament comprise what I call the Ranger Trilogy. They are meant to be read in the sequence indicated. They describe in prose the life of William David Moore, a fictitious character who is a composite of the many gunmen I have known in my life, including myself.
Texas Justice
By Bronco T
He trots ol’ “Blue Dollar”, into the yard,
He’s takin’ chances, by dealing this card.
Out of the doorway, of the cantina they walk,
Frowns on their faces, that’d make weaker men balk.
He guides his ol’ hoss, up to the rack’
Keepin’ the sun, behind his back.
He steps off ol’ Dollar, and onto the ground,
His Mexican spurs, make a jinglin’ sound.
These bandits are tough ones, he know that is true,
With his hand near his revolver, he keeps them in view.
He can tell that their puzzled, by the looks on their faces,
They’d like to take him, but they keep their places.
He keeps ol’ “Blue Dollar”, between him and them,
That ol’ horse warrior, is more than a friend.
There’s a moment of silence, as they look him over,
Do we take him on ?, or dive for cover !
He’s searchin’ for Carlos, that bandit killer,
He raided a ranch, that belonged to Bart Miller.
Carlos had caught them, while they were asleep,
Butchered the family, their possessions to keep.
The bodies were found, by a passing sheep herder,
Who ran into town, crying out murder.
The Ranger was called, to take on the case,
He rode to the ranch, with a scowl on his face.
It didn’t take long, to read the sign,
They drove all the livestock, towards the Mexican line.
He mounted “Blue Dollar”, no time to waste,
He’d find these bandits, and give them a taste,
Of a little Texas Justice.
Crossing the border, he followed their tracks,
To the little cantina, their caution was lax.
Carlos Mantano, his back to the wall,
If he pulls a gun, he’s the first one to fall.
The Ranger speaks slowly, his spanish is fine,
He says, “You raided Texas, and now you are mine.”
He sees Carlos’ hand, that it rests near his gun,
Then suddenly he moves, to start the fun.
The Ranger’s hand flashes, the Colt’s pistol barks,
On Carlos’ shirt, appear to tiny round marks.
The Ranger yanks the Winchester, from out of its case,
To cover the others, with shock on their face.
Into the air, their hands all go,
Carlos’ death, is really a blow.
He ties them together, with rawhide strings,
They’ll walk back to Texas, to find what justice brings.
It’s not far to the border, the river they’ll wade,
The they’ll hang from a limb, till for their crimes they have paid.
On Texas soil, where he left them to swing,
Now that’s Texas Justice, all true Texan’s will sing.
He trots ol’ “Blue Dollar”, into the yard,
He’s takin’ chances, by dealing this card.
Out of the doorway, of the cantina they walk,
Frowns on their faces, that’d make weaker men balk.
He guides his ol’ hoss, up to the rack’
Keepin’ the sun, behind his back.
He steps off ol’ Dollar, and onto the ground,
His Mexican spurs, make a jinglin’ sound.
These bandits are tough ones, he know that is true,
With his hand near his revolver, he keeps them in view.
He can tell that their puzzled, by the looks on their faces,
They’d like to take him, but they keep their places.
He keeps ol’ “Blue Dollar”, between him and them,
That ol’ horse warrior, is more than a friend.
There’s a moment of silence, as they look him over,
Do we take him on ?, or dive for cover !
He’s searchin’ for Carlos, that bandit killer,
He raided a ranch, that belonged to Bart Miller.
Carlos had caught them, while they were asleep,
Butchered the family, their possessions to keep.
The bodies were found, by a passing sheep herder,
Who ran into town, crying out murder.
The Ranger was called, to take on the case,
He rode to the ranch, with a scowl on his face.
It didn’t take long, to read the sign,
They drove all the livestock, towards the Mexican line.
He mounted “Blue Dollar”, no time to waste,
He’d find these bandits, and give them a taste,
Of a little Texas Justice.
Crossing the border, he followed their tracks,
To the little cantina, their caution was lax.
Carlos Mantano, his back to the wall,
If he pulls a gun, he’s the first one to fall.
The Ranger speaks slowly, his spanish is fine,
He says, “You raided Texas, and now you are mine.”
He sees Carlos’ hand, that it rests near his gun,
Then suddenly he moves, to start the fun.
The Ranger’s hand flashes, the Colt’s pistol barks,
On Carlos’ shirt, appear to tiny round marks.
The Ranger yanks the Winchester, from out of its case,
To cover the others, with shock on their face.
Into the air, their hands all go,
Carlos’ death, is really a blow.
He ties them together, with rawhide strings,
They’ll walk back to Texas, to find what justice brings.
It’s not far to the border, the river they’ll wade,
The they’ll hang from a limb, till for their crimes they have paid.
On Texas soil, where he left them to swing,
Now that’s Texas Justice, all true Texan’s will sing.
The Ranger's Lament
By Bronco T
They propped up his bed, near the warm western wall,
Out the clear window pane, he saw the beginning of fall.
Through the clear air, far off in the west,
The Chiricahua Mountains, lay clothed in their best.
The slopes had turned yellow, preparing the colors of fall,
Their leaves seemed to whisper, his name they did call.
His time was near over, he knew death was near,
He faced it with longing, and without fear.
His thoughts turned back to Texas, the place of his birth,
His childhood was hard, his thoughts without mirth.
His mother had died, while he was born,
His father at twelve, from him was torn.
He took all he had, which was not much,
An old ewe necked horse, a rifle saddle and such.
He knew a bit ‘bout cows, and he could handle a horse,
He’d find him a cow job, life couldn’t have been worse.
That first year was tough, he was the cook’s boy,
It kept him eatin’, but brought him no joy.
He toughed it out, he made a hand,
He proved he was harder, than that West Texas land.
The life of a cowboy, on the West Texas plain,
Drawin’ starvation wages, he had nothin’ to gain.
Sixteen years old, a man fully growed,
He got a bit rowdy, into the “hoosegow” was throwed.
A man came there lookin’, he was a stranger,
Said he was somethin’, called a Texas Ranger.
Not very big, his eyes told a tale,
Those foolish to cross ‘im, he’d send straight to hell,
He told them a story, ‘bout the terrible fight,
At a place called Plum Creek, his mind pictured the sight.
A thousand Comanch’, by Buffalo Hump led,
Had raided the country, and on Texas beef fed.
The Comanche took prisoners, and when the fight started,
Many a white woman’s spirit, from this life departed.
He said the granddaughter, of ol’ Dan’l Boone,
Was tied to a tree, and died from a lance wound.
This made his blood boil, he thought of his pa,
His untimely death, he plainly saw.
He told him to stop, ee said, “I’m your man,
I’ll fight Comanche, if anyone can.”
“How old are you, the man said with a grin,
An’ how many battles, have you figured in ?”
“I buried my pa, with these two hands,
In a cold shallow grave, on our homestead lands.”
“He took three arrows, square in the back,
I watched from where I hid, the Comanche attack.”
“They took his hair, then stripped off his clothes,
But left him his boots, they didn’t take those.”
“My age is sixteen, cowboyed for four years,
I’m good with my guns, if in that lies your fears.”
The grin left the man’s face, as Bill finished his tale,
“I believe what you say, your kind won’t fail.”
So that was the start, 1840 the year,
He pinned on a star, an’ bought Ranger gear.
He fought the Comanche, and Mexicans too,
His years as a Ranger, with blinding speed flew.
He fought ‘long side Wallace, Caldwell and Hayes,
And many a good Ranger, he’d watched finish their days.
He rode with McCullough, on the Mexican foray,
He’d hate Santa Ana, ‘till his dying day.
After the war, he stayed close to the border,
Fightin’ for justice, and law and order.
Then he fought for the South, the thought made ‘im bitter,
His side may have lost, but he’d not been a quitter.
When he came home, thirty one his age,
He’d take a wife, and start a new page.
He tried to ranch, women were few,
So back to the old life, bein’ a Ranger he knew.
He fought ten hard years, many battles he won,
He felt he deserved, his place in the sun.
There on the river, his spirit had died,
He had to leave, no more could he abide.
All of the bloodshed, had taken it’s toll,
Had hardened his heart, and tainted his soul.
He gathered his gear, to the West turned his mount,
He’d start a new life, where his past didn’t count.
To the land of New Mexico, he had heard it was fine,
He’d follow the border, along the Mexican line.
The Valley of Animas, of beauty so fair,
It gladdened his heart, and faded his care.
He said to himself, as he took in the view,
“This is my home, this place’ll do.”
His first year wasn’t easy, he fought to stay,
But he stuck it out, and he made it pay.
At age forty two, he started his ranch,
In Smuggler’s Canyon, where two canyons branch.
He built a home, solid and tight,
Gun ports in the windows, from which he could fight.
When forty five, he took a wife,
A Mexican girl, to share his life.
She gave him sons, and one daughter too,
He felt his life blessed, true happiness he knew.
He raised a herd, of good Mexican cattle,
Sold to the Army, here with Apache to battle.
His life with the Apache, had at times been real grim,
They’d sometimes be friendly, or cut your throat on a whim.
They lived through the hard times, when drought killed their stock,
The Apache came raidin’, to their ranch the nighbors would flock.
They fought and survived, with all that they knew,
Their dreams for the ranch, kept always in view.
His sons in their twenties, he in his last years,
Still takin’ chances, scoffing at fears.
He’d left the house, mounted on a good horse,
Well armed as always, as a matter of course.
He rounded a corner, of an ol’ dry creek bed,
There lay a beef, where it had been bled.
There ‘round the carcass, stood three ‘pache buck,
One held a rifle, such was his luck.
An ‘pache fired first, a slug caught his knee,
He fell from his horse, as his revolver came free.
He hammered two, with the big .44,
But the last one got lucky, and evened the score.
The round caught ‘im hard, in the left side,
But he managed a shot, through the last ones thick hide.
He knew he was hurt, much blood was he losin’,
Precious red fluid, from his wounds was oozin’.
A bullet he fired, into the wounded mans head,
He was real sure, That the last one was dead.
He suddenly lost, all strength in his hand,
He watched the revolver, into the dust land.
His world then went black, he fell to the ground,
His body unconscious, was by his son found.
When he awoke, he knew he was dyin’,
The false hopes of his family, he was not buyin’.
He asked them to place, his bed where it they,
So with his last breath, he’d see the final rays of day.
A thought crossed his mind, as his earthly life dimmed,
"My life has been full, and with adventure has brimmed.
I have no regrets, I have lived by the gun,
I’ve died by it too, .........but aint it been fun."
They layed him to rest, a cross on his grave,
Saying, “Here lies a man, both loyal and brave.”
“A loved father and husband, in Texas knew fame,
William David Moore, was his name.
They propped up his bed, near the warm western wall,
Out the clear window pane, he saw the beginning of fall.
Through the clear air, far off in the west,
The Chiricahua Mountains, lay clothed in their best.
The slopes had turned yellow, preparing the colors of fall,
Their leaves seemed to whisper, his name they did call.
His time was near over, he knew death was near,
He faced it with longing, and without fear.
His thoughts turned back to Texas, the place of his birth,
His childhood was hard, his thoughts without mirth.
His mother had died, while he was born,
His father at twelve, from him was torn.
He took all he had, which was not much,
An old ewe necked horse, a rifle saddle and such.
He knew a bit ‘bout cows, and he could handle a horse,
He’d find him a cow job, life couldn’t have been worse.
That first year was tough, he was the cook’s boy,
It kept him eatin’, but brought him no joy.
He toughed it out, he made a hand,
He proved he was harder, than that West Texas land.
The life of a cowboy, on the West Texas plain,
Drawin’ starvation wages, he had nothin’ to gain.
Sixteen years old, a man fully growed,
He got a bit rowdy, into the “hoosegow” was throwed.
A man came there lookin’, he was a stranger,
Said he was somethin’, called a Texas Ranger.
Not very big, his eyes told a tale,
Those foolish to cross ‘im, he’d send straight to hell,
He told them a story, ‘bout the terrible fight,
At a place called Plum Creek, his mind pictured the sight.
A thousand Comanch’, by Buffalo Hump led,
Had raided the country, and on Texas beef fed.
The Comanche took prisoners, and when the fight started,
Many a white woman’s spirit, from this life departed.
He said the granddaughter, of ol’ Dan’l Boone,
Was tied to a tree, and died from a lance wound.
This made his blood boil, he thought of his pa,
His untimely death, he plainly saw.
He told him to stop, ee said, “I’m your man,
I’ll fight Comanche, if anyone can.”
“How old are you, the man said with a grin,
An’ how many battles, have you figured in ?”
“I buried my pa, with these two hands,
In a cold shallow grave, on our homestead lands.”
“He took three arrows, square in the back,
I watched from where I hid, the Comanche attack.”
“They took his hair, then stripped off his clothes,
But left him his boots, they didn’t take those.”
“My age is sixteen, cowboyed for four years,
I’m good with my guns, if in that lies your fears.”
The grin left the man’s face, as Bill finished his tale,
“I believe what you say, your kind won’t fail.”
So that was the start, 1840 the year,
He pinned on a star, an’ bought Ranger gear.
He fought the Comanche, and Mexicans too,
His years as a Ranger, with blinding speed flew.
He fought ‘long side Wallace, Caldwell and Hayes,
And many a good Ranger, he’d watched finish their days.
He rode with McCullough, on the Mexican foray,
He’d hate Santa Ana, ‘till his dying day.
After the war, he stayed close to the border,
Fightin’ for justice, and law and order.
Then he fought for the South, the thought made ‘im bitter,
His side may have lost, but he’d not been a quitter.
When he came home, thirty one his age,
He’d take a wife, and start a new page.
He tried to ranch, women were few,
So back to the old life, bein’ a Ranger he knew.
He fought ten hard years, many battles he won,
He felt he deserved, his place in the sun.
There on the river, his spirit had died,
He had to leave, no more could he abide.
All of the bloodshed, had taken it’s toll,
Had hardened his heart, and tainted his soul.
He gathered his gear, to the West turned his mount,
He’d start a new life, where his past didn’t count.
To the land of New Mexico, he had heard it was fine,
He’d follow the border, along the Mexican line.
The Valley of Animas, of beauty so fair,
It gladdened his heart, and faded his care.
He said to himself, as he took in the view,
“This is my home, this place’ll do.”
His first year wasn’t easy, he fought to stay,
But he stuck it out, and he made it pay.
At age forty two, he started his ranch,
In Smuggler’s Canyon, where two canyons branch.
He built a home, solid and tight,
Gun ports in the windows, from which he could fight.
When forty five, he took a wife,
A Mexican girl, to share his life.
She gave him sons, and one daughter too,
He felt his life blessed, true happiness he knew.
He raised a herd, of good Mexican cattle,
Sold to the Army, here with Apache to battle.
His life with the Apache, had at times been real grim,
They’d sometimes be friendly, or cut your throat on a whim.
They lived through the hard times, when drought killed their stock,
The Apache came raidin’, to their ranch the nighbors would flock.
They fought and survived, with all that they knew,
Their dreams for the ranch, kept always in view.
His sons in their twenties, he in his last years,
Still takin’ chances, scoffing at fears.
He’d left the house, mounted on a good horse,
Well armed as always, as a matter of course.
He rounded a corner, of an ol’ dry creek bed,
There lay a beef, where it had been bled.
There ‘round the carcass, stood three ‘pache buck,
One held a rifle, such was his luck.
An ‘pache fired first, a slug caught his knee,
He fell from his horse, as his revolver came free.
He hammered two, with the big .44,
But the last one got lucky, and evened the score.
The round caught ‘im hard, in the left side,
But he managed a shot, through the last ones thick hide.
He knew he was hurt, much blood was he losin’,
Precious red fluid, from his wounds was oozin’.
A bullet he fired, into the wounded mans head,
He was real sure, That the last one was dead.
He suddenly lost, all strength in his hand,
He watched the revolver, into the dust land.
His world then went black, he fell to the ground,
His body unconscious, was by his son found.
When he awoke, he knew he was dyin’,
The false hopes of his family, he was not buyin’.
He asked them to place, his bed where it they,
So with his last breath, he’d see the final rays of day.
A thought crossed his mind, as his earthly life dimmed,
"My life has been full, and with adventure has brimmed.
I have no regrets, I have lived by the gun,
I’ve died by it too, .........but aint it been fun."
They layed him to rest, a cross on his grave,
Saying, “Here lies a man, both loyal and brave.”
“A loved father and husband, in Texas knew fame,
William David Moore, was his name.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Old Slick Fork Saddle
By Bronco T
He loosened the cinch, on his old slick fork saddle,
This day on the range, had been quite a battle.
A cut on the swell, put there by a round,
Had saved his life, and the peace that he’d found.
They’d cut through the wire, on the south border line,
He’d found their tracks, while cuttin’ for sign.
He followed ‘em west, through San Luis Pass,
He spotted their dust, through his army fieldglass.
Five bandits in all, as best he could tell,
Armed to the teeth, they were plannin’ some hell.
What were they after ?, he asked in his mind,
They weren’t hidin’ their trail, he could follow it blind.
He’d been here a year, travlin’ this range,
Drawin’ cowhand wages, had seemed to him strange.
He’d come up from Texas, a hidin’ his past,
His hard lawman days, behind him a last.
He’s make a fresh start, wash the blood from his hands,
He’d build his own cow herd, nn these New Mexico lands.
He thought to himself, as a chill stirred his spine,
Does death stalk me here, on this Mexican line ?
Most men would have shied, at the uneven odd,
Better odds than these, had planted men in the sod.
He looked to his weapons, as he rested his mount,
On their condition, his life would count.
Resting there in its scabbard, he checked a lever action rifle,
This well worn Winchester, was not a gun with to trifle.
On each side of the pommel, secure in a holster,
Set two ol’ Colt 47's, his fire power they’d bolster.
Old though they were, he’d kept ‘em these years,
When fightin’ Comanche, they’d been the source of their fears.
Those old 44's, cap and ball and outdated,
For fightin’ off horseback, they weren’t overrated.
Two Colt single action Army’s, rested low on his hips,
Caliber 44-40, with yellow ivory grips.
A twice barreled shotgun, Greener the brand,
Slung across his shoulder, in this fight’d have a hand.
Why not turn and run, the reader might ask,
Go punch your cows, and in the sun bask.
He rode for the brand, a point of great pride,
These men were up to no good, from a fight he’d not hide.
He was born to hard times, bred on the range,
Fightin’ and scrappin’, were traits hard to change.
He watched the rear rider, trot into a rocky defile,
“I smell an ambush”, he thought with a smile.
They know I’m behind ‘em, he thought of a plan,
I’ll ride right around ‘em, hug the lay of the lan’,
Lopin’ the sorrel, towards the spot they’d come out,
He slid his horse to a stop, he did a quick scout.
He saw them first, it saved his skin,
He unlimbered the Greener, the timing was slim.
Mere feet ‘tween him and them, two men hit the dust,
Buckshot in the chest, fore they could adjust.
The third one was quicker, a shot scorched his ear,
But the bark of his Colt, brought shock, pain and fear.
The man just heeled over, fell off the butt of his horse,
The horse bolted forward, on a mad dashing course.
He saw the face, of the fourth one in line,
He was a young one, features chiseled and fine.
The barrel of a Sharps, the lad pointed his way,
He knew that big fifty, would ruin his day.
He shot quick as lightnin’, the youngster fired too,
The big round hit somethin’, but what he had not a clue.
The .44-40, knocked the boy from his horse,
To land in a pile, with bone bruising force.
The fifth and last rider, turned his tail to the sun,
It was real plain to see, that he’d had enough fun.
He searched himself over, he had not a scratch,
‘cept that spot near his ear, there’d be a bald patch.
He eyed the gouge in his saddle, near the tall saddle horn,
A chunk of wood and leather, from the saddle was torn.
That old A-fork saddle, had sure saved his hide,
On life and death issues, sometimes things like this ride.
Swingin’ down from his mount, he watched those that he’d shot,
Kicked guns from their reach, careless he was not.
The first two were dead, of this he was sure,
Buckshot in the chest, was a sure cure.
He checked the young man, as he lay on the ground,
From him a groan, as he slowly came ‘round.
There was hate in his eyes, as he looked up at Bill,
If he’d had a gun, Bill he’d try to kill.
“What is your name son, Bill spoke in Spanish refined,
I know that to kill me, you’re greatly inclined.”
He boy was real sullen, but as far as could tell,
Only a lump on the head, when from his horse fell.
The bullet from Bill’s gun, had not struck the boy,
Now that he saw that, it brought him joy.
The boy spit the words, like flame from his mouth,
“You killed my brother, the last time you rode South.”
I know you’re the Ranger, that snuffed out his life,
He left some children, and a sad mourning wife.
Bill was perplexed, at this sudden turn,
Who was this brother, that made this young ones heart burn ?
“My name is Montano, Carlos was my brother,
And since you killed him, I can think of none other.”
Bill’s mind flashed back, to the battles he’d fought,
Killing Carlos Montano, was one he’d forgot.
He remembered the time, down on the river,
The thought of that fight, brought on a shiver.
“That fight was fair, Carlos pulled his gun,
I shot him first, I regret not what I’ve done.”
“He’d butchered a family, Killed as they slept,
Many a sad tear, was over that family wept.”
“Carlos was an outlaw, a bad one to all,
He was not a hero, he was bound for a fall.”
“He had a chance, to be shot or get hung,
He made a choice, and took two round through the lung.”
“I’ve seen how you fight, said the boy on the ground,
I thought you a coward, but that is not what I’ve found.”
“I believe what you’ve said, your fight has been fair,
Perhaps I’ve been wrong, ......I came here on a dare.”
“My brother was bad, this thing is true,
He made a mistake, to draw against you.”
“I know that I’m wrong, I deserve to die too,
You should kill me, I tried to kill you.”
“Bill put his hand out, It was clasped by the boy,
“There’s been enough killin’, death brings me no joy.”
“It takes a true man, to admit a mistake,
Gather up your horse, and to the trail take.”
“Go back to your kin, after you bury your dead,
Care for your brother’s family, and see that they’re fed.”
“But son let me warn you, I’ve given a chance,
Don’t dog my trail, or with the devil you’ll dance.”
He left the boy diggin’, holes by the trail,
Bill traveled homeward, and watched the Western sun pale......
He loosened the cinch, on his old slick fork saddle,
This day on the range, had been quite a battle.
A cut on the swell, put there by a round,
Had saved his life, and the peace that he’d found.
They’d cut through the wire, on the south border line,
He’d found their tracks, while cuttin’ for sign.
He followed ‘em west, through San Luis Pass,
He spotted their dust, through his army fieldglass.
Five bandits in all, as best he could tell,
Armed to the teeth, they were plannin’ some hell.
What were they after ?, he asked in his mind,
They weren’t hidin’ their trail, he could follow it blind.
He’d been here a year, travlin’ this range,
Drawin’ cowhand wages, had seemed to him strange.
He’d come up from Texas, a hidin’ his past,
His hard lawman days, behind him a last.
He’s make a fresh start, wash the blood from his hands,
He’d build his own cow herd, nn these New Mexico lands.
He thought to himself, as a chill stirred his spine,
Does death stalk me here, on this Mexican line ?
Most men would have shied, at the uneven odd,
Better odds than these, had planted men in the sod.
He looked to his weapons, as he rested his mount,
On their condition, his life would count.
Resting there in its scabbard, he checked a lever action rifle,
This well worn Winchester, was not a gun with to trifle.
On each side of the pommel, secure in a holster,
Set two ol’ Colt 47's, his fire power they’d bolster.
Old though they were, he’d kept ‘em these years,
When fightin’ Comanche, they’d been the source of their fears.
Those old 44's, cap and ball and outdated,
For fightin’ off horseback, they weren’t overrated.
Two Colt single action Army’s, rested low on his hips,
Caliber 44-40, with yellow ivory grips.
A twice barreled shotgun, Greener the brand,
Slung across his shoulder, in this fight’d have a hand.
Why not turn and run, the reader might ask,
Go punch your cows, and in the sun bask.
He rode for the brand, a point of great pride,
These men were up to no good, from a fight he’d not hide.
He was born to hard times, bred on the range,
Fightin’ and scrappin’, were traits hard to change.
He watched the rear rider, trot into a rocky defile,
“I smell an ambush”, he thought with a smile.
They know I’m behind ‘em, he thought of a plan,
I’ll ride right around ‘em, hug the lay of the lan’,
Lopin’ the sorrel, towards the spot they’d come out,
He slid his horse to a stop, he did a quick scout.
He saw them first, it saved his skin,
He unlimbered the Greener, the timing was slim.
Mere feet ‘tween him and them, two men hit the dust,
Buckshot in the chest, fore they could adjust.
The third one was quicker, a shot scorched his ear,
But the bark of his Colt, brought shock, pain and fear.
The man just heeled over, fell off the butt of his horse,
The horse bolted forward, on a mad dashing course.
He saw the face, of the fourth one in line,
He was a young one, features chiseled and fine.
The barrel of a Sharps, the lad pointed his way,
He knew that big fifty, would ruin his day.
He shot quick as lightnin’, the youngster fired too,
The big round hit somethin’, but what he had not a clue.
The .44-40, knocked the boy from his horse,
To land in a pile, with bone bruising force.
The fifth and last rider, turned his tail to the sun,
It was real plain to see, that he’d had enough fun.
He searched himself over, he had not a scratch,
‘cept that spot near his ear, there’d be a bald patch.
He eyed the gouge in his saddle, near the tall saddle horn,
A chunk of wood and leather, from the saddle was torn.
That old A-fork saddle, had sure saved his hide,
On life and death issues, sometimes things like this ride.
Swingin’ down from his mount, he watched those that he’d shot,
Kicked guns from their reach, careless he was not.
The first two were dead, of this he was sure,
Buckshot in the chest, was a sure cure.
He checked the young man, as he lay on the ground,
From him a groan, as he slowly came ‘round.
There was hate in his eyes, as he looked up at Bill,
If he’d had a gun, Bill he’d try to kill.
“What is your name son, Bill spoke in Spanish refined,
I know that to kill me, you’re greatly inclined.”
He boy was real sullen, but as far as could tell,
Only a lump on the head, when from his horse fell.
The bullet from Bill’s gun, had not struck the boy,
Now that he saw that, it brought him joy.
The boy spit the words, like flame from his mouth,
“You killed my brother, the last time you rode South.”
I know you’re the Ranger, that snuffed out his life,
He left some children, and a sad mourning wife.
Bill was perplexed, at this sudden turn,
Who was this brother, that made this young ones heart burn ?
“My name is Montano, Carlos was my brother,
And since you killed him, I can think of none other.”
Bill’s mind flashed back, to the battles he’d fought,
Killing Carlos Montano, was one he’d forgot.
He remembered the time, down on the river,
The thought of that fight, brought on a shiver.
“That fight was fair, Carlos pulled his gun,
I shot him first, I regret not what I’ve done.”
“He’d butchered a family, Killed as they slept,
Many a sad tear, was over that family wept.”
“Carlos was an outlaw, a bad one to all,
He was not a hero, he was bound for a fall.”
“He had a chance, to be shot or get hung,
He made a choice, and took two round through the lung.”
“I’ve seen how you fight, said the boy on the ground,
I thought you a coward, but that is not what I’ve found.”
“I believe what you’ve said, your fight has been fair,
Perhaps I’ve been wrong, ......I came here on a dare.”
“My brother was bad, this thing is true,
He made a mistake, to draw against you.”
“I know that I’m wrong, I deserve to die too,
You should kill me, I tried to kill you.”
“Bill put his hand out, It was clasped by the boy,
“There’s been enough killin’, death brings me no joy.”
“It takes a true man, to admit a mistake,
Gather up your horse, and to the trail take.”
“Go back to your kin, after you bury your dead,
Care for your brother’s family, and see that they’re fed.”
“But son let me warn you, I’ve given a chance,
Don’t dog my trail, or with the devil you’ll dance.”
He left the boy diggin’, holes by the trail,
Bill traveled homeward, and watched the Western sun pale......
Monday, March 2, 2009
Legends of the West
By Bronco T ( This is a true story )
His name was Coors he told us, mounted on a bay,
Been up on Garcia Flats, how long he didn’t say.
His hair was long and shaggy, but his shirt and pants was clean,
He rode an old Hamley saddle, and the bronc he rode was mean.
Lean and small and wiry, batwing chaps he wore,
A quirt was hangin’ from his wrist, he was cowboy to the core.
Headed into Cimarron, ridin’ broncs in the rodeo,
He’d come to town to party, and maybe win a little dough.
We met ‘im on a little crick, West of Rayado Place,
The little bronc he’s ridin’, was walkin’ a rapid pace.
Well he helped us with our gather, and we pushed them horses home,
He stayed and ate some breakfast, then said to town he’d roam..
We seen ‘im at the rodeo, forkin’ a salty bronc,
He fanned ‘im with his hat a bit, long after the horn did honk.
Then he kicked them Blucher customs, from the stirrup brace,
And somersaulted through the air, landin’ on both feet with grace.
He cocked his silverbelly, to the right with jaunt and style,
And sauntered cross the arena sand, on his face a cocky smile.
He drew the average check that day, and every hand there did concede,
Coors rode like the ol’ bronc twisters, a rare and dyin’ breed.
Well we seen ‘im at the dance that night, kickin’ up his heels,
Dancin’ with the pretty girls, doin shotish, waltz and reels.
In the years that followed, we talked about ‘im some,
Wonderin’ where he headed, and where he might hail from.
No one seemed to know ‘im, least that’s what it did seem,
But we all still marvel, that we saw the twister cream.
And ever since we saw ‘im ride, we rank ‘im with the best,
Like those long ago bronc busters, Legends of the West.
His name was Coors he told us, mounted on a bay,
Been up on Garcia Flats, how long he didn’t say.
His hair was long and shaggy, but his shirt and pants was clean,
He rode an old Hamley saddle, and the bronc he rode was mean.
Lean and small and wiry, batwing chaps he wore,
A quirt was hangin’ from his wrist, he was cowboy to the core.
Headed into Cimarron, ridin’ broncs in the rodeo,
He’d come to town to party, and maybe win a little dough.
We met ‘im on a little crick, West of Rayado Place,
The little bronc he’s ridin’, was walkin’ a rapid pace.
Well he helped us with our gather, and we pushed them horses home,
He stayed and ate some breakfast, then said to town he’d roam..
We seen ‘im at the rodeo, forkin’ a salty bronc,
He fanned ‘im with his hat a bit, long after the horn did honk.
Then he kicked them Blucher customs, from the stirrup brace,
And somersaulted through the air, landin’ on both feet with grace.
He cocked his silverbelly, to the right with jaunt and style,
And sauntered cross the arena sand, on his face a cocky smile.
He drew the average check that day, and every hand there did concede,
Coors rode like the ol’ bronc twisters, a rare and dyin’ breed.
Well we seen ‘im at the dance that night, kickin’ up his heels,
Dancin’ with the pretty girls, doin shotish, waltz and reels.
In the years that followed, we talked about ‘im some,
Wonderin’ where he headed, and where he might hail from.
No one seemed to know ‘im, least that’s what it did seem,
But we all still marvel, that we saw the twister cream.
And ever since we saw ‘im ride, we rank ‘im with the best,
Like those long ago bronc busters, Legends of the West.
Y2 Triple 000 Compliant
By Bronco T
( Wrote this in December 1999 when all the silliness happened)
You know I find myself wonderin’ what the fuss is all about,
What’s makin’ them computer fellers cuss mumble an shout.
It seems they’s a problem ‘bout timin’ or such,
An’ in year 2 triple aught they say we’ll be sufferin’ much.
Why jest the other day, as I traipsed through the mall,
I heered a young feller, ‘bout ready ta bawl.
He says ta me, “Mister, is your PC compliant,
Are ya prepared fer the fall, are ya computer reliant ?
Well I scratched my head, right under my hat,
Tryin’ ta figure out, why he was talkin’ like that.
I says ta ‘im, “Well I’m not sure what ya mean,
But if yer referin’ ta that confounded, high priced addin’ machine.
“We’ll git along fine, in 2 triple aught,
‘Cause we’re still illiterate, an’ compliant we’re not.”
“‘Cause ya see we don’t care. If y’alls timin’ is bad,
If they all quit ta runnin’, we wouldn’t be sad.”
“For we still remember, how ta grow our own food,
So we just don’t give a darn, and I don’t mean ta be rude.”
“But when you’re still a fussin’, with them infernal addin’ machines,
I’ll be at home eatin’ sow belly and beans.”
“So you try ta remember, them machines won’t fill your belly,
And that wire glass and plastic, is shore nuff tasteless and smelly.”
“You’re askin’ me if, I’m Y 2 triple aught compliant,
Well I’ll tell ya this much, nope I’m technol’gy defiant.”
“And if the power throws a fit, I’ll fire up a candle,
And I’ll raise my water, with a pump with a handle.”
“If my gas guzzler drys up, I can still ride a horse,
And if it’s too far ta town, I’ll stay home with the cattle.”
“‘Cause you’re too young ta remember, but I’ll tell ya this son,
Livin’ without modern convenience shore used ta be fun.”
“Yeh, I’m computer illiterate, not Y2 triple aught compliant,
I’m just an old codger, that’s technol’gy defiant.”
( Wrote this in December 1999 when all the silliness happened)
You know I find myself wonderin’ what the fuss is all about,
What’s makin’ them computer fellers cuss mumble an shout.
It seems they’s a problem ‘bout timin’ or such,
An’ in year 2 triple aught they say we’ll be sufferin’ much.
Why jest the other day, as I traipsed through the mall,
I heered a young feller, ‘bout ready ta bawl.
He says ta me, “Mister, is your PC compliant,
Are ya prepared fer the fall, are ya computer reliant ?
Well I scratched my head, right under my hat,
Tryin’ ta figure out, why he was talkin’ like that.
I says ta ‘im, “Well I’m not sure what ya mean,
But if yer referin’ ta that confounded, high priced addin’ machine.
“We’ll git along fine, in 2 triple aught,
‘Cause we’re still illiterate, an’ compliant we’re not.”
“‘Cause ya see we don’t care. If y’alls timin’ is bad,
If they all quit ta runnin’, we wouldn’t be sad.”
“For we still remember, how ta grow our own food,
So we just don’t give a darn, and I don’t mean ta be rude.”
“But when you’re still a fussin’, with them infernal addin’ machines,
I’ll be at home eatin’ sow belly and beans.”
“So you try ta remember, them machines won’t fill your belly,
And that wire glass and plastic, is shore nuff tasteless and smelly.”
“You’re askin’ me if, I’m Y 2 triple aught compliant,
Well I’ll tell ya this much, nope I’m technol’gy defiant.”
“And if the power throws a fit, I’ll fire up a candle,
And I’ll raise my water, with a pump with a handle.”
“If my gas guzzler drys up, I can still ride a horse,
And if it’s too far ta town, I’ll stay home with the cattle.”
“‘Cause you’re too young ta remember, but I’ll tell ya this son,
Livin’ without modern convenience shore used ta be fun.”
“Yeh, I’m computer illiterate, not Y2 triple aught compliant,
I’m just an old codger, that’s technol’gy defiant.”
Waggin' Tongue
By Bronco T
Livin’ with a wife, can sometimes be tough,
And I know that she thinks, livin with me’s been real rough.
Love aint the issue, when we have a big fight,
It’s generally about, who’s wrong or who’s right.
Now one day at breakfast, to use an example,
I’d won the argument, ‘cause my wisdom was ample.
Well it soon became apparent, that my wisdom had failed,
So I ducked out the back door, as at my poor head she flailed.
I sulked to the barn, tail draggin’ the ground,
As she burned up the air, with a loud squallin’ sound.
I could still hear her plain, till I closed the barn doors,
And breathed a sigh of relief, as I started my chores.
Today was the day, I took salt to the water,
So I fed my big draft team, a double helpin’ of fodder.
How I love that big team, with all their powerful muscle,
And as I harnessed ‘em up, it kept my mind off that tussle.
I loaded the wagon with blocks of stock salt,
Thinkin’ that fight with my wife, wasn’t my fault.
My team was a good one, Big Ben and Ol’ Pard,
Out of the barn I eased ‘em, and into the yard.
Just as we came to, the back door of the house,
Out came my sweetheart, my true lovin’ spouse.
I was torn between runnin’, or face a mighty tongue lashin’,
When she calls out with a sweet voice, full of love and compassion.
“Honey hold up, don’t drive so fast,
For I’ve found a solution, to our squabblin’ at last.”
Well I pulls to a stop, she jumps up in the seat,
And throws her arms ‘round my neck all feminine an’ sweet.
The she says with a sigh, “Oh, say look at this team,
How they both pull together, aren’t they just a dream.
“And wouldn’t it be nice, if like this team me and thee,
Pulled our life’s load together, what a joy that would be.”
Well I cleared my throat, feelin’ fear in my heart,
I said, “I’ll do my share, and I’ll do my part.
“And we’d pull like this team, if we’d both agree,
That we need one tongue, ‘tween both thee ‘n me.”
Livin’ with a wife, can sometimes be tough,
And I know that she thinks, livin with me’s been real rough.
Love aint the issue, when we have a big fight,
It’s generally about, who’s wrong or who’s right.
Now one day at breakfast, to use an example,
I’d won the argument, ‘cause my wisdom was ample.
Well it soon became apparent, that my wisdom had failed,
So I ducked out the back door, as at my poor head she flailed.
I sulked to the barn, tail draggin’ the ground,
As she burned up the air, with a loud squallin’ sound.
I could still hear her plain, till I closed the barn doors,
And breathed a sigh of relief, as I started my chores.
Today was the day, I took salt to the water,
So I fed my big draft team, a double helpin’ of fodder.
How I love that big team, with all their powerful muscle,
And as I harnessed ‘em up, it kept my mind off that tussle.
I loaded the wagon with blocks of stock salt,
Thinkin’ that fight with my wife, wasn’t my fault.
My team was a good one, Big Ben and Ol’ Pard,
Out of the barn I eased ‘em, and into the yard.
Just as we came to, the back door of the house,
Out came my sweetheart, my true lovin’ spouse.
I was torn between runnin’, or face a mighty tongue lashin’,
When she calls out with a sweet voice, full of love and compassion.
“Honey hold up, don’t drive so fast,
For I’ve found a solution, to our squabblin’ at last.”
Well I pulls to a stop, she jumps up in the seat,
And throws her arms ‘round my neck all feminine an’ sweet.
The she says with a sigh, “Oh, say look at this team,
How they both pull together, aren’t they just a dream.
“And wouldn’t it be nice, if like this team me and thee,
Pulled our life’s load together, what a joy that would be.”
Well I cleared my throat, feelin’ fear in my heart,
I said, “I’ll do my share, and I’ll do my part.
“And we’d pull like this team, if we’d both agree,
That we need one tongue, ‘tween both thee ‘n me.”
Upon Ol' Capitan
By Bronco T
It’s hard to still remember, been so long ago,
I think it was late twenties, give or take a year or so.
High on the Capitan, on land just newly bought,
We came to gather cattle, least that was what we thought.
Mountains steep and brushy, cattle old long horned and wild,
We thought that we was cowboys, not slickers meek and mild.
We found that we could catch ‘em, but on horseflesh and man was rough,
Always had good horses, just never had enough.
Lost ropes and busted riggins, although we caught a few,
Tie ‘em to a scrubby pine, let ‘em set a day or two.
And when we went to lead ‘em, off that mountain named Capitan,
Starvin’ hadn’t slowed ‘em down none, they wrecked us to a man.
Feelin’ low but so much wiser, the boss says, “Cut ‘em loose,
I hate to admit defeat boys, but for devil’s cattle I’ve no use.”
We gathered at the Prather camp, to lick our wounds and heal,
And look upon that lonely mountain, with our failure each to deal.
When ridin’ into camp there came, upon a little grass fed mare,
An old and grizzled Mescalero, with long and braided hair.
He spoke in broken English, but mostly he talked in sign,
We was all a little curious to what he had in mind.
He’d heard about our troubles, upon El Capitan,
And for bringin’ off them cattle, he said he had a plan.
Well we all grinned and laughed a bit, for we thought he was a fool,
We was a lickin’ wounds ya see, to his words we all was cool.
But the boss he says, “Just listen, let him say his piece,
They’s five hundred head of mossy horns, upon that mountain lease.”
“If you can get them cattle, off of that mountain spread,
I will pay you well old man, but you’ll likely end up dead.”
The old man gave a toothless smile, and says, “You do what I say,
Me no bring ‘em cattle, you no gotta pay.”
The boss says, “It’s a deal old man, I’ll go along for sport,
What is it I need to do, for cowboys I’m not short.”
“First you catch’m burros, catch’m burros many,
Then you drive ‘em here to me, ‘cause burros I aint got any.”
We thought the boss would balk at that, but you see he gave his word,
and getting’ him to break it, why that would be….absurd.
He bought up every burro, that we could find for miles,
And I tell ya folks was laughin’, well…..maybe they’s just smiles.
We gathered ‘bout a hundred, and brought ‘em ta our place,
While that Mescalero Apache, was whittlin’ at quite a pace.
He began ta buildin’ ox yokes, least that’s what they looked ta me,
Carvin’ with knife and hatchet, the pinewood beams upon his knee.
While we went ta feedin’ burros, the best of hay and grain,
Why if we was fattenin’ yearlins, they wouldn’t have made the gain.
Them burros was just rollin’, the best they’d ever ‘et,
While the boss he just scratched his head, and over feed bills he did fret.
After ‘bout two weeks of this, the Indian says, “We go,
You move ‘em up mountain, me catch’m wagon go too slow.”
The Mescalero fills the wagon, with the yokes that he had made,
He follows behind the burros we is pushin’, and fellers what a sad parade.
We throwed ‘em in a brush corral, almost near the top of Capitan,
To watch this Indians miracle, the man with the wild cattle plan.
The Mescalero says, “You catch‘m cattle, catch‘m all you can,
Then me fix’m burros, burros lead’m off El Capitan.
To say that I was skeptical, is to put it mild I’d say,
Burros leadin’ wild cattle, now that’ll be the day.
We went ta catchin’ cattle, that part we did real swell,
And set back ta watch the rodeo, when things went clear ta hell.
The Indian took the burro, and hooked ‘im to the yoke,
Then latched ta that wild steers neck, snubbed ta a pine there in a choke.
We took off all the ropes and ties, and when that steer was free, He lit out fer parts unknown, but that burro did not agree.
Fer on his mind was vittles, the best he’d ever saw,
So after flyin’ around fer a while, down that mountain he’d begin ta claw.
That steer would fight and beller, for all that he was worth,
But soon that little burro, down the hill he’d sally forth.
It was surely an amazement, as all were hitched an’ then were freed,
And then we watched them little burros, teach them bovine how ta lead.
In this story lie a lesson, one that I did learn,
Don’t be too hard on burros, and simple wisdom never spurn.
It’s hard to still remember, been so long ago,
I think it was late twenties, give or take a year or so.
High on the Capitan, on land just newly bought,
We came to gather cattle, least that was what we thought.
Mountains steep and brushy, cattle old long horned and wild,
We thought that we was cowboys, not slickers meek and mild.
We found that we could catch ‘em, but on horseflesh and man was rough,
Always had good horses, just never had enough.
Lost ropes and busted riggins, although we caught a few,
Tie ‘em to a scrubby pine, let ‘em set a day or two.
And when we went to lead ‘em, off that mountain named Capitan,
Starvin’ hadn’t slowed ‘em down none, they wrecked us to a man.
Feelin’ low but so much wiser, the boss says, “Cut ‘em loose,
I hate to admit defeat boys, but for devil’s cattle I’ve no use.”
We gathered at the Prather camp, to lick our wounds and heal,
And look upon that lonely mountain, with our failure each to deal.
When ridin’ into camp there came, upon a little grass fed mare,
An old and grizzled Mescalero, with long and braided hair.
He spoke in broken English, but mostly he talked in sign,
We was all a little curious to what he had in mind.
He’d heard about our troubles, upon El Capitan,
And for bringin’ off them cattle, he said he had a plan.
Well we all grinned and laughed a bit, for we thought he was a fool,
We was a lickin’ wounds ya see, to his words we all was cool.
But the boss he says, “Just listen, let him say his piece,
They’s five hundred head of mossy horns, upon that mountain lease.”
“If you can get them cattle, off of that mountain spread,
I will pay you well old man, but you’ll likely end up dead.”
The old man gave a toothless smile, and says, “You do what I say,
Me no bring ‘em cattle, you no gotta pay.”
The boss says, “It’s a deal old man, I’ll go along for sport,
What is it I need to do, for cowboys I’m not short.”
“First you catch’m burros, catch’m burros many,
Then you drive ‘em here to me, ‘cause burros I aint got any.”
We thought the boss would balk at that, but you see he gave his word,
and getting’ him to break it, why that would be….absurd.
He bought up every burro, that we could find for miles,
And I tell ya folks was laughin’, well…..maybe they’s just smiles.
We gathered ‘bout a hundred, and brought ‘em ta our place,
While that Mescalero Apache, was whittlin’ at quite a pace.
He began ta buildin’ ox yokes, least that’s what they looked ta me,
Carvin’ with knife and hatchet, the pinewood beams upon his knee.
While we went ta feedin’ burros, the best of hay and grain,
Why if we was fattenin’ yearlins, they wouldn’t have made the gain.
Them burros was just rollin’, the best they’d ever ‘et,
While the boss he just scratched his head, and over feed bills he did fret.
After ‘bout two weeks of this, the Indian says, “We go,
You move ‘em up mountain, me catch’m wagon go too slow.”
The Mescalero fills the wagon, with the yokes that he had made,
He follows behind the burros we is pushin’, and fellers what a sad parade.
We throwed ‘em in a brush corral, almost near the top of Capitan,
To watch this Indians miracle, the man with the wild cattle plan.
The Mescalero says, “You catch‘m cattle, catch‘m all you can,
Then me fix’m burros, burros lead’m off El Capitan.
To say that I was skeptical, is to put it mild I’d say,
Burros leadin’ wild cattle, now that’ll be the day.
We went ta catchin’ cattle, that part we did real swell,
And set back ta watch the rodeo, when things went clear ta hell.
The Indian took the burro, and hooked ‘im to the yoke,
Then latched ta that wild steers neck, snubbed ta a pine there in a choke.
We took off all the ropes and ties, and when that steer was free, He lit out fer parts unknown, but that burro did not agree.
Fer on his mind was vittles, the best he’d ever saw,
So after flyin’ around fer a while, down that mountain he’d begin ta claw.
That steer would fight and beller, for all that he was worth,
But soon that little burro, down the hill he’d sally forth.
It was surely an amazement, as all were hitched an’ then were freed,
And then we watched them little burros, teach them bovine how ta lead.
In this story lie a lesson, one that I did learn,
Don’t be too hard on burros, and simple wisdom never spurn.
Trail and Rivers
By Bronco T
All my life I’ve marveled, at the paths that I have trod,
Over lofty mountains, across the prairie sod.
I started life upon the trail, called the Santa Fe,
And in the muddy Canadian, near my grandfather I did play.
I grew to youth upon a road, the King’s Road was its name,
On the mighty Rio Grande, though now subdued and tame.
My manhood found me struggling, across the Arizona trail,
Where the Gila and Colorado, join to form a mighty tail.
Then in the North I found them, the Parting of the Way,
On the Sweetwater and the Sandy, in my heart they’ll always stay.
In reflection now I know these, are the trails and rivers of my life,
Filled with times for growing, scenes of joy and toil and strife.
And in my shadow years I pray, that if in life I have been true,
They’ll bury me near the Santa Fe, the Canadian in my eternal view.
All my life I’ve marveled, at the paths that I have trod,
Over lofty mountains, across the prairie sod.
I started life upon the trail, called the Santa Fe,
And in the muddy Canadian, near my grandfather I did play.
I grew to youth upon a road, the King’s Road was its name,
On the mighty Rio Grande, though now subdued and tame.
My manhood found me struggling, across the Arizona trail,
Where the Gila and Colorado, join to form a mighty tail.
Then in the North I found them, the Parting of the Way,
On the Sweetwater and the Sandy, in my heart they’ll always stay.
In reflection now I know these, are the trails and rivers of my life,
Filled with times for growing, scenes of joy and toil and strife.
And in my shadow years I pray, that if in life I have been true,
They’ll bury me near the Santa Fe, the Canadian in my eternal view.
The Tall and Squat of Things
By Bronco T
Ya know I’ve two fine cowboy friends,
Down Douglas, Arizona way,
And chasin’ smugglers horseback,
Is how they make their pay.
Now both are “puro vaquero”,
As my Mexican friends would say,
But their looks are powerful different,
As different as night and day.
Rick Knuckles is tall and cowboy lean,
While Allan Sperling is short and squat,
Rick looks like the Marlboro man,
Well Allan......he does not.
I was laughin’ and commentin’ on this fact,
While palaverin’ with them one day,
When Allan gets this evil grin,
One that says you’ll pay.
He says, “Ya know,
Ol’ pard it’s true,
My looks aint so great,
And folks won’t gather intent on my beauty to view.”
“But I’m mighty glad you come around,
And Rick he’s grateful too,
Cause ya know I really don’t look all that bad,
Whilst I’m standing here next to you.”
Ya know I’ve two fine cowboy friends,
Down Douglas, Arizona way,
And chasin’ smugglers horseback,
Is how they make their pay.
Now both are “puro vaquero”,
As my Mexican friends would say,
But their looks are powerful different,
As different as night and day.
Rick Knuckles is tall and cowboy lean,
While Allan Sperling is short and squat,
Rick looks like the Marlboro man,
Well Allan......he does not.
I was laughin’ and commentin’ on this fact,
While palaverin’ with them one day,
When Allan gets this evil grin,
One that says you’ll pay.
He says, “Ya know,
Ol’ pard it’s true,
My looks aint so great,
And folks won’t gather intent on my beauty to view.”
“But I’m mighty glad you come around,
And Rick he’s grateful too,
Cause ya know I really don’t look all that bad,
Whilst I’m standing here next to you.”
Sons of Thunder
By Bronco T
Upon the wind so fierce and strong, it came rolling on, on,
Rolling thunder, dreadful sound, his ear it burst upon.
Across the mighty western plain, country loath to tame,
It came fiercely, dust and rain gusting, twisting as it came.
A shiver walked across his spine and made his skin to crawl,
The voice it came, so soft, still, incessantly the call.
“Oh son of man, son of man look well and you will see,
Sons of Thunder riding hard, who would have words with thee.”
Upon the storm tossed sky he spied, men upon their steed,
Hooves a’slashin’ through the air, coming hard with speed.
And to his gaze they did appear, to thunder to the ground,
Upon each horse’s hoof he saw shoes of gold was found.
They flashed with brilliance as they came along the sunlit way,
If finer horses he’d ever seen, he really couldn’t say.
A blood red bay the leade’rs horse, behind him was a dun,
Brilliant copper color glowing, bronze there in the sun.
Running smoothly was a black, so black he glistened blue,
And charging neck and neck with him a grulla’ came to view.
Taking up the rear he saw, bounding from the air,
Sunlight glistenin’ in her hair, a mighty steel gray mare.
Thunder rollin’ as they came, him shaken to the core,
Terror mirrored in his eyes, for what there was in store.
Who were these men, with horses fine who bolted from the sky,
And what was that the voice had said and what did it imply ?
He waited there to face his doom, for that it seemed to be,
In his heart a prayer he thought, and on his lips a plea.
Oh, good Lord, who are these men who come here with the thunder,
Are they here to take my life, and my immortal soul to plunder ?
On they came relentlessly, they did not spur or whip,
Effortlessly they seemed to glide, across the country slip.
With their mounts a comin’ hard, across a wash did vault,
Until into the yard they thundered, a slidin’ to a halt.
The men upon the mighty backs of each of these great mounts,
Were ridin’ punchy saddles with all the gear that counts.
Canvas dusters white from desert sunshine, wrapped around their back,
And perched above each weathered brow, a wide felt hat of black.
Leggins made of the finest hide, all well used and oiled,
Told him that these men were hands, with cattle they had toiled.
Upon their feet he noticed then, the ridin’ boots they wore,
Were custom made and spurs of silver each shinin’ boot heel bore.
Each man who sat his horse, was cowboy through and through, But what they wanted here with him, he had not a clue.
The leader of the group then spoke, a mounted on the bay,
As with a silken handkerchief, he wiped the sweat away.
“Son now don’t be frightened, you’ll see I’m your pard,
We’ve come to ask a favor, one that won’t be hard.”
“A brother that you know so well, on hard times has fallen,
It’s because of him you see, that we’ve come a callin’.”
“We know that he’s a rounder, with a love for drink and play,
And that he wore his welcome out, at your house the other day.”
“But we’re askin’ that you help ‘im, in his locoed state,
So put away your arrogance, and smother all your hate.”
“Only you and you alone, can touch his jaded heart,
And lead him back into the fold, where he can then take part.”
“Through the blood of Christ he can, have his soul restored,
And then true joy and happiness, into his life be poured.”
“So you see it’s for this reason, that we’ve come to call,
For you see he is our brother too, and in sadness we saw him fall.”
“So do not fail your brother, in his earthly plight,
Go and lift him by the hand, and struggle with your might.”
“For God has said in Heaven, the worth of souls is great,
Make sure your work starts quickly now, and do not hesitate.”
“The time is short on earth you see, and you don’t have long,
So work well while you can ol’ pard, and sing a happy song.”
“And please don’t judge your brother, judgin’ is a lofty role,
But by the grace of God go thee, don’t jeopardize your soul.”
With this his words were ended, he turned his horse away,
And each touched his hat brim, as if he would say.
“We’re with you pard so do not fail, this brother that we love,
And we’ll see you in a better land, there in our home above.”
Suddenly I came awake, upon my sweat soaked sheet,
A listenin’ to the rain drops, hit the roof with lively beat.
I leaped upon my feet and tore, curtains from window sill,
And looked upon the rainy view with which my eyes did fill.
For there on the horizon, my wondrous eyes did spy,
Five well mounted heavenly cowboys, as horses leapt into the sky.
This is an unusual poem in that I woke up at 2:00 a.m. , and began writing on it until it was done five hours later. My only brother and I had experienced a falling out and had no contact with each other for a while and I think this poem was given to me to soften my heart towards him.
Upon the wind so fierce and strong, it came rolling on, on,
Rolling thunder, dreadful sound, his ear it burst upon.
Across the mighty western plain, country loath to tame,
It came fiercely, dust and rain gusting, twisting as it came.
A shiver walked across his spine and made his skin to crawl,
The voice it came, so soft, still, incessantly the call.
“Oh son of man, son of man look well and you will see,
Sons of Thunder riding hard, who would have words with thee.”
Upon the storm tossed sky he spied, men upon their steed,
Hooves a’slashin’ through the air, coming hard with speed.
And to his gaze they did appear, to thunder to the ground,
Upon each horse’s hoof he saw shoes of gold was found.
They flashed with brilliance as they came along the sunlit way,
If finer horses he’d ever seen, he really couldn’t say.
A blood red bay the leade’rs horse, behind him was a dun,
Brilliant copper color glowing, bronze there in the sun.
Running smoothly was a black, so black he glistened blue,
And charging neck and neck with him a grulla’ came to view.
Taking up the rear he saw, bounding from the air,
Sunlight glistenin’ in her hair, a mighty steel gray mare.
Thunder rollin’ as they came, him shaken to the core,
Terror mirrored in his eyes, for what there was in store.
Who were these men, with horses fine who bolted from the sky,
And what was that the voice had said and what did it imply ?
He waited there to face his doom, for that it seemed to be,
In his heart a prayer he thought, and on his lips a plea.
Oh, good Lord, who are these men who come here with the thunder,
Are they here to take my life, and my immortal soul to plunder ?
On they came relentlessly, they did not spur or whip,
Effortlessly they seemed to glide, across the country slip.
With their mounts a comin’ hard, across a wash did vault,
Until into the yard they thundered, a slidin’ to a halt.
The men upon the mighty backs of each of these great mounts,
Were ridin’ punchy saddles with all the gear that counts.
Canvas dusters white from desert sunshine, wrapped around their back,
And perched above each weathered brow, a wide felt hat of black.
Leggins made of the finest hide, all well used and oiled,
Told him that these men were hands, with cattle they had toiled.
Upon their feet he noticed then, the ridin’ boots they wore,
Were custom made and spurs of silver each shinin’ boot heel bore.
Each man who sat his horse, was cowboy through and through, But what they wanted here with him, he had not a clue.
The leader of the group then spoke, a mounted on the bay,
As with a silken handkerchief, he wiped the sweat away.
“Son now don’t be frightened, you’ll see I’m your pard,
We’ve come to ask a favor, one that won’t be hard.”
“A brother that you know so well, on hard times has fallen,
It’s because of him you see, that we’ve come a callin’.”
“We know that he’s a rounder, with a love for drink and play,
And that he wore his welcome out, at your house the other day.”
“But we’re askin’ that you help ‘im, in his locoed state,
So put away your arrogance, and smother all your hate.”
“Only you and you alone, can touch his jaded heart,
And lead him back into the fold, where he can then take part.”
“Through the blood of Christ he can, have his soul restored,
And then true joy and happiness, into his life be poured.”
“So you see it’s for this reason, that we’ve come to call,
For you see he is our brother too, and in sadness we saw him fall.”
“So do not fail your brother, in his earthly plight,
Go and lift him by the hand, and struggle with your might.”
“For God has said in Heaven, the worth of souls is great,
Make sure your work starts quickly now, and do not hesitate.”
“The time is short on earth you see, and you don’t have long,
So work well while you can ol’ pard, and sing a happy song.”
“And please don’t judge your brother, judgin’ is a lofty role,
But by the grace of God go thee, don’t jeopardize your soul.”
With this his words were ended, he turned his horse away,
And each touched his hat brim, as if he would say.
“We’re with you pard so do not fail, this brother that we love,
And we’ll see you in a better land, there in our home above.”
Suddenly I came awake, upon my sweat soaked sheet,
A listenin’ to the rain drops, hit the roof with lively beat.
I leaped upon my feet and tore, curtains from window sill,
And looked upon the rainy view with which my eyes did fill.
For there on the horizon, my wondrous eyes did spy,
Five well mounted heavenly cowboys, as horses leapt into the sky.
This is an unusual poem in that I woke up at 2:00 a.m. , and began writing on it until it was done five hours later. My only brother and I had experienced a falling out and had no contact with each other for a while and I think this poem was given to me to soften my heart towards him.
Sacate De Amor
By Bronco T
“Love grass” he called it,
I thought it a curious name,
But as I pondered on it,
I knew I’d call it just the same.
Upon the broad flat playa,
This noble grass it grew,
Tall as a pony’s belly,
Slick with the morning dew.
“The best feed there is for horses,
This sacate de amor,
And when the rain it comes,
There is abundance here and more.”
Roberto old and grizzled,
From sun and wind and rain,
His long years as a cowboy,
Brought him only age and pain.
To hear him speak of simple grass,
With words both soft and mild,
Belied his outward visage,
Vaquero.....proud once and wild.
With those few words I saw him,
As few people have I’m sure,
Beneath that rough exterior,
Resides a heart both bold and pure.
The true heart of a horseman,
Like the vaqueros here before,
Who used to ride the playa,
Amidst this.......sacate de amor.
“Love grass” he called it,
I thought it a curious name,
But as I pondered on it,
I knew I’d call it just the same.
Upon the broad flat playa,
This noble grass it grew,
Tall as a pony’s belly,
Slick with the morning dew.
“The best feed there is for horses,
This sacate de amor,
And when the rain it comes,
There is abundance here and more.”
Roberto old and grizzled,
From sun and wind and rain,
His long years as a cowboy,
Brought him only age and pain.
To hear him speak of simple grass,
With words both soft and mild,
Belied his outward visage,
Vaquero.....proud once and wild.
With those few words I saw him,
As few people have I’m sure,
Beneath that rough exterior,
Resides a heart both bold and pure.
The true heart of a horseman,
Like the vaqueros here before,
Who used to ride the playa,
Amidst this.......sacate de amor.
Pancho
By Bronco T
Pancho was a dealer, a dealer in fine horse,
And a right savvy horseman, like most vaquero of course.
He had a ranchito, up Cimarron way,
Right there on the road, where folks passed by each day.
Now Big John was a rancher, of notable fame,
Who also knew horses, and to Pancho he came.
He’d noticed a big horse, a fine linebacked dun,
And he hankered to have ‘im, from that ol’ Mexican son.
Well he found Pancho sittin’, on his corral top rail,
So he struck up a bargain, wantin’ Pancho to sell.
John says, “Hey Pancho, is that dun there for sale ?,
A finer lookin’ pony, I aint seen for a spell.”
Pancho looks up slowly, from braidin’ a rope,
Pushes back his hat, and for the words he did grope,
He says, “No senor John, thees horse hees na for sale,
He no look good, can you not tell ?”
John says, “You’re crazy, you ol’ Mexican coot,
That’s a fine lookin’ pony, now just how much loot ?”
Well Pancho he grins, says, “Feefty dollars my fee,
Mebbe he look good for you, he no look good for me.”
John takes the lead rope, on that ol’ linebacked dun,
And then with a grin, he pays Pancho the mun.
He takes off at a trot, his purchase in tow,
Thinkin’ he’d sure fleeced ol’ Pancho, and to his friends he’d now crow.
Well the very next day, here comes Big John on the run,
A leadin’ behind him, that ol’ linebacked dun.
He finds Pancho sittin’, on the same corral rail,
John starts out cussin, poor Pancho to hell.
John says, “Pancho you scoundrel, you’re the worst of your kind,
This dun horse you sold me, why…..this horse is blind.
Well Pancho just grins, from his perch on the fence,
And says, “Calm down there Juan, I know you’ve more sense.”
“Remember ?”…….I tol’ you once, I don’t like to be rude,
So I tol’ you twice, thees caballo…..He no look so good.”
Pancho was a dealer, a dealer in fine horse,
And a right savvy horseman, like most vaquero of course.
He had a ranchito, up Cimarron way,
Right there on the road, where folks passed by each day.
Now Big John was a rancher, of notable fame,
Who also knew horses, and to Pancho he came.
He’d noticed a big horse, a fine linebacked dun,
And he hankered to have ‘im, from that ol’ Mexican son.
Well he found Pancho sittin’, on his corral top rail,
So he struck up a bargain, wantin’ Pancho to sell.
John says, “Hey Pancho, is that dun there for sale ?,
A finer lookin’ pony, I aint seen for a spell.”
Pancho looks up slowly, from braidin’ a rope,
Pushes back his hat, and for the words he did grope,
He says, “No senor John, thees horse hees na for sale,
He no look good, can you not tell ?”
John says, “You’re crazy, you ol’ Mexican coot,
That’s a fine lookin’ pony, now just how much loot ?”
Well Pancho he grins, says, “Feefty dollars my fee,
Mebbe he look good for you, he no look good for me.”
John takes the lead rope, on that ol’ linebacked dun,
And then with a grin, he pays Pancho the mun.
He takes off at a trot, his purchase in tow,
Thinkin’ he’d sure fleeced ol’ Pancho, and to his friends he’d now crow.
Well the very next day, here comes Big John on the run,
A leadin’ behind him, that ol’ linebacked dun.
He finds Pancho sittin’, on the same corral rail,
John starts out cussin, poor Pancho to hell.
John says, “Pancho you scoundrel, you’re the worst of your kind,
This dun horse you sold me, why…..this horse is blind.
Well Pancho just grins, from his perch on the fence,
And says, “Calm down there Juan, I know you’ve more sense.”
“Remember ?”…….I tol’ you once, I don’t like to be rude,
So I tol’ you twice, thees caballo…..He no look so good.”
Here Lies Ol' Les
By Bronco T
My name is Lester, Les for short,
I’m known for my eatin’, to me a great sport.
An’ bein’ raised in New Mexico, I thrive on that good Mexican food,
Why I can eat them fiery hot chiles, that’d strangle a dude.
An’ when I was young, suave, beaudatious an’ slim,
I’d eat a half dozen burritos, on merely a whim.
Now the makins of burritos, is tortillas, chile, an’ meat,
And with fine spices throwed in, it’s a meal that’s a treat.
But ya see I got older, an’ my appetite didn’t slack,
For on them burritos, I still love to snack.
An’ my figure it suffered, ‘cause them tortillas got lard,
Makin’ ‘em taste right without it, is really quite hard.
Now they say to stay healthy, ya gotta watch your co-lest-erol,
But I’ve found that food that aint got it, don’t taste good at all.
So I reckon I’ll keep eatin’ ‘em, till my veins shut down tight,
My ticker quits tickin’, an’ gives up the fight.
Then my family’ll gather, to lay sod o’er my head,
Mourn at my passin’, and wish I weren’t dead.
My tombstone’ll read, “Here lies Ol’ Les, his artries was poor,
One burrito too many, no Les, no more.
I wrote this poem after readin’ the contents of a “Super Red Hot Burrito” I bought at a convenience store, and then later readin’ a grave marker on a grave in Tombstone, Arizona.
My name is Lester, Les for short,
I’m known for my eatin’, to me a great sport.
An’ bein’ raised in New Mexico, I thrive on that good Mexican food,
Why I can eat them fiery hot chiles, that’d strangle a dude.
An’ when I was young, suave, beaudatious an’ slim,
I’d eat a half dozen burritos, on merely a whim.
Now the makins of burritos, is tortillas, chile, an’ meat,
And with fine spices throwed in, it’s a meal that’s a treat.
But ya see I got older, an’ my appetite didn’t slack,
For on them burritos, I still love to snack.
An’ my figure it suffered, ‘cause them tortillas got lard,
Makin’ ‘em taste right without it, is really quite hard.
Now they say to stay healthy, ya gotta watch your co-lest-erol,
But I’ve found that food that aint got it, don’t taste good at all.
So I reckon I’ll keep eatin’ ‘em, till my veins shut down tight,
My ticker quits tickin’, an’ gives up the fight.
Then my family’ll gather, to lay sod o’er my head,
Mourn at my passin’, and wish I weren’t dead.
My tombstone’ll read, “Here lies Ol’ Les, his artries was poor,
One burrito too many, no Les, no more.
I wrote this poem after readin’ the contents of a “Super Red Hot Burrito” I bought at a convenience store, and then later readin’ a grave marker on a grave in Tombstone, Arizona.
Jale and Clem's Christmas Surprise
By Bronco T
Carlos Called Jake and Clement called Clem,
Lived on a ranch, where they were treated like men.
Clem he was nine, and Jake was ten,
But they shouldered their share, of ranch work with a grin.
They were both known as hands, to the folks far and wide,
They knew about cows, and could rope and could ride.
But like most ranch raised boys, they both loved the horse,
And each longed to own one, not someone else’s of course.
Since Jake he was five, and Clem he was three,
Each year they had begged, for a cowhorse under the tree.
Each year was the same, Santy didn’t come through,
So they vowed that this Christmas, they’d change Santy’s view.
Late into the night, they concocted a plan,
About how they’d treat, that Ol’ Santy man.
If he didn’t come through, and tie a horse under their tree,
He’d live to regret, comin’ ‘round the Ol’ Lazy T3.
Well Christmas Eve came, the rest of the family in bed,
But Little Jake and Clem, snuck out to the old saddle shed.
They each grabbed a rope, and a brandin’ iron apiece,
A dehornin’ saw, and a bucket of grease.
The brandin’ irons were placed, in the fireplace to heat,
The ropes were tied off, to the banister real neat.
They crouched under the stairs, their ropes in their hand,
But stayin’ awake past ‘bout midnight, is more than a young boy can stand.
Well when Santy showed up, in his red Santy suit,
He was busy with presents, full of fine Christmas loot.
Jake and Clem woke with a start, from a light Christmas sleep,
And seen Ol’ Santy bent over, stackin’ presents real deep.
They both started to boil, cause somethin’ weren’t right,
There wasn’t a new cowhorse, anywhere in sight.
Movin’ quiet as can be Jake, throwed a rope ‘round Santy’s feet,
And then Clem snagged his shoulders, jerked his slack clean and neat.
Santy hit the wood floor, on his face with a bang,
He’d learn not to mess, with the Lazy T3 gang.
Well Santy was out, for the count like a light,
And Clem tied ‘im up, before he started to fight.
Jake snaked a hot iron, out of the coals of the fire,
And slapped it smack on the rump, of that Ol’ reindeer flier.
Santy let out a scream, that you could hear clear in town,
And shot so high in the air, he liked to never come down.
Then he started in to cussin’, so bad the air it turned blue,
Usin’ the kind of words, they didn’t know Santy knew.
Santy pulled loose his hand, from the rope that had ‘im tied,
And the fake beard, was from his face pried.
Then Jake and Clem stared, at Santy’s face with great awe,
For the man in the Santy suit, was really their pa.
It scared ‘em so badly, that each knew he was dead,
Ran out the front door a screamin, past the old saddle shed.
And as they ran by they saw, there tied to the hitchin tree,
Two matchin’ bay geldings, as pretty as could be.
They knew better than stop, headin’ for the willows near the creek, Both shakin’ so bad, It made their knees weak.
Well the end of this story, is a happy one you’ll see, And They had a happy Christmas, As happy can be.
Jake and Clem eventually came home, ‘cause their ma was in tears, Pa forgave the boys, which relieved their worst fears.
Pa’s backside was sore, but the boys got their horse,
It was one Christmas to remember, but it could have been worse.
Everybody was happy, but most of all pa,
He felt real lucky escapin, that de-hornin’ saw.
Carlos Called Jake and Clement called Clem,
Lived on a ranch, where they were treated like men.
Clem he was nine, and Jake was ten,
But they shouldered their share, of ranch work with a grin.
They were both known as hands, to the folks far and wide,
They knew about cows, and could rope and could ride.
But like most ranch raised boys, they both loved the horse,
And each longed to own one, not someone else’s of course.
Since Jake he was five, and Clem he was three,
Each year they had begged, for a cowhorse under the tree.
Each year was the same, Santy didn’t come through,
So they vowed that this Christmas, they’d change Santy’s view.
Late into the night, they concocted a plan,
About how they’d treat, that Ol’ Santy man.
If he didn’t come through, and tie a horse under their tree,
He’d live to regret, comin’ ‘round the Ol’ Lazy T3.
Well Christmas Eve came, the rest of the family in bed,
But Little Jake and Clem, snuck out to the old saddle shed.
They each grabbed a rope, and a brandin’ iron apiece,
A dehornin’ saw, and a bucket of grease.
The brandin’ irons were placed, in the fireplace to heat,
The ropes were tied off, to the banister real neat.
They crouched under the stairs, their ropes in their hand,
But stayin’ awake past ‘bout midnight, is more than a young boy can stand.
Well when Santy showed up, in his red Santy suit,
He was busy with presents, full of fine Christmas loot.
Jake and Clem woke with a start, from a light Christmas sleep,
And seen Ol’ Santy bent over, stackin’ presents real deep.
They both started to boil, cause somethin’ weren’t right,
There wasn’t a new cowhorse, anywhere in sight.
Movin’ quiet as can be Jake, throwed a rope ‘round Santy’s feet,
And then Clem snagged his shoulders, jerked his slack clean and neat.
Santy hit the wood floor, on his face with a bang,
He’d learn not to mess, with the Lazy T3 gang.
Well Santy was out, for the count like a light,
And Clem tied ‘im up, before he started to fight.
Jake snaked a hot iron, out of the coals of the fire,
And slapped it smack on the rump, of that Ol’ reindeer flier.
Santy let out a scream, that you could hear clear in town,
And shot so high in the air, he liked to never come down.
Then he started in to cussin’, so bad the air it turned blue,
Usin’ the kind of words, they didn’t know Santy knew.
Santy pulled loose his hand, from the rope that had ‘im tied,
And the fake beard, was from his face pried.
Then Jake and Clem stared, at Santy’s face with great awe,
For the man in the Santy suit, was really their pa.
It scared ‘em so badly, that each knew he was dead,
Ran out the front door a screamin, past the old saddle shed.
And as they ran by they saw, there tied to the hitchin tree,
Two matchin’ bay geldings, as pretty as could be.
They knew better than stop, headin’ for the willows near the creek, Both shakin’ so bad, It made their knees weak.
Well the end of this story, is a happy one you’ll see, And They had a happy Christmas, As happy can be.
Jake and Clem eventually came home, ‘cause their ma was in tears, Pa forgave the boys, which relieved their worst fears.
Pa’s backside was sore, but the boys got their horse,
It was one Christmas to remember, but it could have been worse.
Everybody was happy, but most of all pa,
He felt real lucky escapin, that de-hornin’ saw.
Coatimundi like goat meat, don't they?
By Bronco T
Since I was a kid, it’s been my desire,
To own me a ranch, yup someday I’d buy ‘er.
Well over the years, reality set in,
I aint won the lottery, and I got no rich kin.
But we bought us a place, ‘bout an acre or less,
And set in to cleanin’ up, the terrible mess.
It sure aint a ranch, but I reckon it’ll do,
‘cause we’re in the stock business, whether or not I wanted to.
‘cause I’ve got a wife, and I love her a lot,
She bought us some chickens, fer our Sunday stew pot.
Then one day a goat, showed up at our door,
And we had to have ‘im, he was so cute an’ poor.
Then two more goats came, they was both nanny,
They just kinda materialized, it was really uncanny.
“Chick” came along next, now ya know she’s our horse,
So the goats wouldn’t be lonely, makes sense...of course !
Next we got cats, two kittens real cute,
Grandma liked us so much, she throwed in two females to boot !
So I figure the tally, runs ‘bout thataway,
And the only one gettin’ rich, is the farmer sellin’ hay.
And oh I forgot, why of all the luck,
We seem to have acquired, a crippled white duck.
Things was runnin’ real swell, then overnight changed,
Why ol’ mother nature, had other plans arranged.
Fer into our lives, them scoundrel Coatimindi came,
And it seems after that, things weren’t never the same.
First went the chickens, one at a time,
Then cats showed up missin’, oh....what a crime,
Well I tried to act sad, and I succeeded a lot,
But into my mind, crept a pure wicked thought.
I was feelin’ real guilty, but like it or not, wouldn’t it be wonderful,
If Coatimundi liked goat meat a lot ?
Since I was a kid, it’s been my desire,
To own me a ranch, yup someday I’d buy ‘er.
Well over the years, reality set in,
I aint won the lottery, and I got no rich kin.
But we bought us a place, ‘bout an acre or less,
And set in to cleanin’ up, the terrible mess.
It sure aint a ranch, but I reckon it’ll do,
‘cause we’re in the stock business, whether or not I wanted to.
‘cause I’ve got a wife, and I love her a lot,
She bought us some chickens, fer our Sunday stew pot.
Then one day a goat, showed up at our door,
And we had to have ‘im, he was so cute an’ poor.
Then two more goats came, they was both nanny,
They just kinda materialized, it was really uncanny.
“Chick” came along next, now ya know she’s our horse,
So the goats wouldn’t be lonely, makes sense...of course !
Next we got cats, two kittens real cute,
Grandma liked us so much, she throwed in two females to boot !
So I figure the tally, runs ‘bout thataway,
And the only one gettin’ rich, is the farmer sellin’ hay.
And oh I forgot, why of all the luck,
We seem to have acquired, a crippled white duck.
Things was runnin’ real swell, then overnight changed,
Why ol’ mother nature, had other plans arranged.
Fer into our lives, them scoundrel Coatimindi came,
And it seems after that, things weren’t never the same.
First went the chickens, one at a time,
Then cats showed up missin’, oh....what a crime,
Well I tried to act sad, and I succeeded a lot,
But into my mind, crept a pure wicked thought.
I was feelin’ real guilty, but like it or not, wouldn’t it be wonderful,
If Coatimundi liked goat meat a lot ?
Cowboy Correct
By Bronco T
Now just what the heck, is political correc’
And how does it a-ply ta me.
‘Cause where I was raised, we wasn’t much fazed,
‘Bout whether on our words you’d agree.
Fer we said what we meant, and the message we sent,
Had it’s own Cowboyology.
Now fer instance I’ll show, just so’s ya all know,
Some examples of just what I mean.
If I says, “That ol’ boy’s slow”, that means his brain oil’s a might low,
But correctness’d say he’s just not cranially keen.
When I say that a feller, is a mite yeller,
I refers ta the stripe down his back.
But the co-rrectness crowd, would proclaim outloud,
That in spinal resolve he’s just slack.
And if I says ‘bout a sport, that his gitalong is short,
I’m talkin’ ‘bout the length of his jeans.
But them with a co-rrectness bent, would beg I repent,
And that elevationally deprived is what I means.
So I’m sure that ya see, political correctness I plea,
Don’t make a whole lot of sense.
And in this we’ll agree, that plain ol’ Cowboyology,
Beats speakin’ in acceptable tense.
‘Cause folks out West here all know, that as politics seems ta go,
We aint seen much of it here yet that’s correct.
Now just what the heck, is political correc’
And how does it a-ply ta me.
‘Cause where I was raised, we wasn’t much fazed,
‘Bout whether on our words you’d agree.
Fer we said what we meant, and the message we sent,
Had it’s own Cowboyology.
Now fer instance I’ll show, just so’s ya all know,
Some examples of just what I mean.
If I says, “That ol’ boy’s slow”, that means his brain oil’s a might low,
But correctness’d say he’s just not cranially keen.
When I say that a feller, is a mite yeller,
I refers ta the stripe down his back.
But the co-rrectness crowd, would proclaim outloud,
That in spinal resolve he’s just slack.
And if I says ‘bout a sport, that his gitalong is short,
I’m talkin’ ‘bout the length of his jeans.
But them with a co-rrectness bent, would beg I repent,
And that elevationally deprived is what I means.
So I’m sure that ya see, political correctness I plea,
Don’t make a whole lot of sense.
And in this we’ll agree, that plain ol’ Cowboyology,
Beats speakin’ in acceptable tense.
‘Cause folks out West here all know, that as politics seems ta go,
We aint seen much of it here yet that’s correct.
Educatin' Slim
By Bronco T
Ya know ol’ Slim I’m getting’ old, a little long now in the tooth,
But I’m a larnin’ many things, I knew not in my youth.
Take fer instance I lately larned, about them cows we herd,
‘vironmental fellers claims they’s smart, which thought to me had not occurred.
They claims a great conspiracy, amongst that bovine race,
Has done polluted up the air, at a mighty rapid pace.
It seems them cows do gather, I reckon late at night,
To belch and fart together, with abandon and delight.
Now this foul and noxious cloud it seems, rises through the air,
And melts a big ol’ ozone hole, in air that once was fair.
An’ Slim that aint the worstest thing, that them cows has done,
It’s scary what them bovines do, I tell ya now ol’ son.
And what I’m ‘bout ta say, will shake ya to the core,
Bein’ ‘round them cows so long, aint fit ya fer the score.
They’ve found them cows is congregatin, round them streams and tanks,
A trompin water to a froth, an’ cavin’ in the banks.
An’ Slim ya know them little fish, the shiny ones ya see,
Them cows has stomped ‘em into mush, ‘midst choruses of mooin’ glee.
So ya see ol’ Slim it’s true, bout cows ya don’t know much,
They’s really quite a treacherous lot, prone ta sabotage and such.
Now Slim I see you’re doubtin’, ‘bout these thing I’ve larned,
But you can bet that I’ll be watchin, and my head aint turned.
For I intend ta catch ‘em, whilst they prey at night,
‘cause ya see them ‘vironmental fellers surely must be right.
The reason that I know they’s right, is really plain ya see,
I seen it all the other night, right there on T.V.
And Slim I do intend to, do my moral part,
An’ stop them wicked bovine, from when they stomp, ‘n belch, ‘n fart.
I wrote this poem after I heard some fool environmentalist make the statement that cow farts were causing holes in the ozone layer. After I about laughed till I passed out I wrote this poem as a spoof.
Ya know ol’ Slim I’m getting’ old, a little long now in the tooth,
But I’m a larnin’ many things, I knew not in my youth.
Take fer instance I lately larned, about them cows we herd,
‘vironmental fellers claims they’s smart, which thought to me had not occurred.
They claims a great conspiracy, amongst that bovine race,
Has done polluted up the air, at a mighty rapid pace.
It seems them cows do gather, I reckon late at night,
To belch and fart together, with abandon and delight.
Now this foul and noxious cloud it seems, rises through the air,
And melts a big ol’ ozone hole, in air that once was fair.
An’ Slim that aint the worstest thing, that them cows has done,
It’s scary what them bovines do, I tell ya now ol’ son.
And what I’m ‘bout ta say, will shake ya to the core,
Bein’ ‘round them cows so long, aint fit ya fer the score.
They’ve found them cows is congregatin, round them streams and tanks,
A trompin water to a froth, an’ cavin’ in the banks.
An’ Slim ya know them little fish, the shiny ones ya see,
Them cows has stomped ‘em into mush, ‘midst choruses of mooin’ glee.
So ya see ol’ Slim it’s true, bout cows ya don’t know much,
They’s really quite a treacherous lot, prone ta sabotage and such.
Now Slim I see you’re doubtin’, ‘bout these thing I’ve larned,
But you can bet that I’ll be watchin, and my head aint turned.
For I intend ta catch ‘em, whilst they prey at night,
‘cause ya see them ‘vironmental fellers surely must be right.
The reason that I know they’s right, is really plain ya see,
I seen it all the other night, right there on T.V.
And Slim I do intend to, do my moral part,
An’ stop them wicked bovine, from when they stomp, ‘n belch, ‘n fart.
I wrote this poem after I heard some fool environmentalist make the statement that cow farts were causing holes in the ozone layer. After I about laughed till I passed out I wrote this poem as a spoof.
Buzzards in the Road.
By Bronco T
Well I raced down the road, with nary a care,
When I had occasion to suffer, a most powerful scare.
For there in the road, five buzzards did sit, A gnawin’ the rabbit, on which they had lit.
The first four was quick, fer they heard my horn,
But the last one he was the dumbest bird born.
Well I sashayed the wheel, as the brake I did slam,
Spun out of control, and into a jam.
But ol’ buzzard, just sat there alone,
A munchin’ away, on a flat rabbit bone.
While back in my truck, things got real tense,
As my ol’ rocket sled, slid right into the fence.
Posts went ta flyin’, stretched wires went snap,
And the windshield arrived, right there in my lap.
Well I cussed ta myself, as we slid to a stop,
Me on my head, my truck on its top.
‘cause that’s when I seen ‘im, out the corner of one eye,
That sorry ol’ buzzard, as he flapped towards the sky.
And I thought of a moral, as I lay upside down, A feelin’ real helpless, with my nose on the groun’.
If I have occasion to make, this choice agin’,
Against that ol’ buzzard, I reckon I’ll sin.
‘cause instead of sufferin’, these abrasions and cuts,
The next time…..I’d rather smell ol’ buzzard guts.
Every day when I would travel to work in Lordsburg from my home in Cotton City, New Mexico, I would see a group of five buzzards sittin’ in the middle of the road near the Valley View Baptist Church. I would start honking my horn when I got about a quarter mile away from them, and four of them would fly off, but the fifth one must have been real old and deaf because he would never fly until I was almost on top of him. Then one day there were only four left, so I suppose he was hit by a car or died of old age. Kinda miss ‘im.
Well I raced down the road, with nary a care,
When I had occasion to suffer, a most powerful scare.
For there in the road, five buzzards did sit, A gnawin’ the rabbit, on which they had lit.
The first four was quick, fer they heard my horn,
But the last one he was the dumbest bird born.
Well I sashayed the wheel, as the brake I did slam,
Spun out of control, and into a jam.
But ol’ buzzard, just sat there alone,
A munchin’ away, on a flat rabbit bone.
While back in my truck, things got real tense,
As my ol’ rocket sled, slid right into the fence.
Posts went ta flyin’, stretched wires went snap,
And the windshield arrived, right there in my lap.
Well I cussed ta myself, as we slid to a stop,
Me on my head, my truck on its top.
‘cause that’s when I seen ‘im, out the corner of one eye,
That sorry ol’ buzzard, as he flapped towards the sky.
And I thought of a moral, as I lay upside down, A feelin’ real helpless, with my nose on the groun’.
If I have occasion to make, this choice agin’,
Against that ol’ buzzard, I reckon I’ll sin.
‘cause instead of sufferin’, these abrasions and cuts,
The next time…..I’d rather smell ol’ buzzard guts.
Every day when I would travel to work in Lordsburg from my home in Cotton City, New Mexico, I would see a group of five buzzards sittin’ in the middle of the road near the Valley View Baptist Church. I would start honking my horn when I got about a quarter mile away from them, and four of them would fly off, but the fifth one must have been real old and deaf because he would never fly until I was almost on top of him. Then one day there were only four left, so I suppose he was hit by a car or died of old age. Kinda miss ‘im.
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