cowpuncher76
Active member
None of ya'll knows me, so by way of introduction, since I've managed to post a couple times already, I figured I'd throw some of my poems out there. I sure wouldn't be appalled to hear some feedback on 'em either....
Buckaroo
In a land of legend, among stony peaks and sagebrush flats,
resides a breed of rawhide, squint-eyed men in wide-brimmed hats.
Most are much alike, stern-faced soldiers, locked in eternal battle,
of a war with mother nature, to raise a people's cattle.
But there lives a select, elite few, in worn old handmade chinks,
riding fine spade-bit bridle horses (and some jug-headed dinks!).
They adhere to jaquima a freno of the old Spanish bit
and ask for nothing more than a deep-bottomed horse to sit.
Young and old alike, it doesn't seem to matter,
so long as they have the chance to swing the long reata,
and neck a bug-eyed cow, or a wild steer or two.
They'll work for poverty wages, to earn the title buckaroo.
Broncs
Snorting, squalling, squealing, pawing last morning stars from the sky.
Spurring, quirting, cursing, struggling to make the morning's ride.
Cowboys ride a pile of horses, of every breed and type,
and most all of us have one; it's fame we like to hype.
He may be big and stout, custom-made to hold a rope,
or perhaps small and wiry, the kind to give a cutter hope.
Some are even papered, often times quite well-bred,
while others are just grade, ugly dinks with ugly heads.
It doesn't matter who or what they are, it's just our horses luck—
Cowboys only seem to recall the outlaw ones who buck!
Poppin' Turns, Texas-style!
I spent some time down south, in that Texas brushland,
where in due time, I chanced to meet, a tied hard and fast hand!
In his batwing chaps and grazing bit, his rope tied to his swells,
he reminded me of childhood picture books that I remember well.
He looked upon my outfit, saw the mulehide on my horn,
and my sixty foot long lass rope made him glare at me with scorn.
He saw my thumb was missing, gone from my right hand,
and cursed me as a coward, for being a dally man.
We set out, upon the range, to hunt the wild bovine,
and things went well at first; our styles meshed just fine.
Then it happened, as it will, and Tex got in a wreck.
His slack got under his horse's leg-I thought sure he'd break his neck!
It only took a moment to save his horse and life,
as my brave friend came to his senses and jerked out his trusty knife.
He cut the rope, right in two, and the cow? Well, she got away!
I looked upon the scene and laughed. I felt I had to say,
"When in a wreck, I'll pitch my rope and lose the cow, it's true!
"But in a wreck, with your knife? Hell, I guess you do too!"
The Land of Buckaroos
I trot out in flat hat, chinks and silver spurs,
fresh from the branding trap, covered in blood and manure.
I sail the sagebrush seas in a worn old slickfork saddle,
atop a frosty bronc that most folks would not dare straddle.
This life is full of struggle, but I'll live it 'til I'm through,
amidst the fragrant sagebrush, in the land of buckaroos.
In this threadbare vest and these worn and patched jeans,
With naught to eat but beef, and day-old half-cooked beans,
and a sixty-foot long rawhide reata in my hands,
I may not look the part, but I'm equal to any man.
So I live my life the way I should, to the brand forever true,
amidst the fragrant sagebrush, in the land of buckaroos.
Several good cowhorses, two useless dogs and one town-raised wife,
all have fallen victim to this cowboy way of life.
But there are men, you see, of the gypsy blood, still riding tall today.
They live their lives and see the world, in an old-fashioned sort of way.
When asked, if pressed, most will say, "Tis just what I do!
"Amidst the fragrant sagebrush, in the land of buckaroos."
So if you should chance to see me, sitting here in town,
drinking down the whiskey and in the sights and sounds,
do not look upon me with that pity in your eyes.
I know too well what I have missed and that time has passed me by.
I may have missed a lot but I'll manage to get through,
amidst the fragrant sagebrush, in the land of buckaroos.
Buckaroo
In a land of legend, among stony peaks and sagebrush flats,
resides a breed of rawhide, squint-eyed men in wide-brimmed hats.
Most are much alike, stern-faced soldiers, locked in eternal battle,
of a war with mother nature, to raise a people's cattle.
But there lives a select, elite few, in worn old handmade chinks,
riding fine spade-bit bridle horses (and some jug-headed dinks!).
They adhere to jaquima a freno of the old Spanish bit
and ask for nothing more than a deep-bottomed horse to sit.
Young and old alike, it doesn't seem to matter,
so long as they have the chance to swing the long reata,
and neck a bug-eyed cow, or a wild steer or two.
They'll work for poverty wages, to earn the title buckaroo.
Broncs
Snorting, squalling, squealing, pawing last morning stars from the sky.
Spurring, quirting, cursing, struggling to make the morning's ride.
Cowboys ride a pile of horses, of every breed and type,
and most all of us have one; it's fame we like to hype.
He may be big and stout, custom-made to hold a rope,
or perhaps small and wiry, the kind to give a cutter hope.
Some are even papered, often times quite well-bred,
while others are just grade, ugly dinks with ugly heads.
It doesn't matter who or what they are, it's just our horses luck—
Cowboys only seem to recall the outlaw ones who buck!
Poppin' Turns, Texas-style!
I spent some time down south, in that Texas brushland,
where in due time, I chanced to meet, a tied hard and fast hand!
In his batwing chaps and grazing bit, his rope tied to his swells,
he reminded me of childhood picture books that I remember well.
He looked upon my outfit, saw the mulehide on my horn,
and my sixty foot long lass rope made him glare at me with scorn.
He saw my thumb was missing, gone from my right hand,
and cursed me as a coward, for being a dally man.
We set out, upon the range, to hunt the wild bovine,
and things went well at first; our styles meshed just fine.
Then it happened, as it will, and Tex got in a wreck.
His slack got under his horse's leg-I thought sure he'd break his neck!
It only took a moment to save his horse and life,
as my brave friend came to his senses and jerked out his trusty knife.
He cut the rope, right in two, and the cow? Well, she got away!
I looked upon the scene and laughed. I felt I had to say,
"When in a wreck, I'll pitch my rope and lose the cow, it's true!
"But in a wreck, with your knife? Hell, I guess you do too!"
The Land of Buckaroos
I trot out in flat hat, chinks and silver spurs,
fresh from the branding trap, covered in blood and manure.
I sail the sagebrush seas in a worn old slickfork saddle,
atop a frosty bronc that most folks would not dare straddle.
This life is full of struggle, but I'll live it 'til I'm through,
amidst the fragrant sagebrush, in the land of buckaroos.
In this threadbare vest and these worn and patched jeans,
With naught to eat but beef, and day-old half-cooked beans,
and a sixty-foot long rawhide reata in my hands,
I may not look the part, but I'm equal to any man.
So I live my life the way I should, to the brand forever true,
amidst the fragrant sagebrush, in the land of buckaroos.
Several good cowhorses, two useless dogs and one town-raised wife,
all have fallen victim to this cowboy way of life.
But there are men, you see, of the gypsy blood, still riding tall today.
They live their lives and see the world, in an old-fashioned sort of way.
When asked, if pressed, most will say, "Tis just what I do!
"Amidst the fragrant sagebrush, in the land of buckaroos."
So if you should chance to see me, sitting here in town,
drinking down the whiskey and in the sights and sounds,
do not look upon me with that pity in your eyes.
I know too well what I have missed and that time has passed me by.
I may have missed a lot but I'll manage to get through,
amidst the fragrant sagebrush, in the land of buckaroos.
I enjoyed the heck out'a that last one especially :tiphat: