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.