No one knows where the longhorn goes,
When his breed is scattered and few—
He once was king of the cattle ring,
But his time in this world is through.
We all must go where longhorns go,
When the bone moon falls from the sky—
We will not hide when we ride no more
And the longhorn goes off to die.
Our land must be where longhorns live—
Where we all seek our destiny—
This once was land still full of sand
With longhorns far as you could see.
We all must dream what cowboys dreamt
When they looked out upon the West—
We all should lead the life we need
As we follow the trail that’s best.
We all must go where longhorns grazed
On a ride through the green grass sea—
We all must lead and protect our creed—
But most of all, we should be free.
The path is hard, but we will climb
Up that hill where the longhorn goes—
Though the trail is long, it is not wrong,
When we know what the longhorn knows.
Dramatic Verse (Verse Drama)
He was young,
Had his guns on his hip.
Walkin the streets,
With a cigar on his lip.
The town folk were scared,
They knew what he could do.
They have seen what he done,
To a chosen few.
The leather he wore,
Was stained from the powder of his gun.
A sign of the battles,
That the slinger had won.
A family moved in,
That no one knew.
A white man,
And a wife that was sious.
The young man decided,
The lady would not survive.
Because of her color,
She would die.
In the street,
In the middle of town,
This is where the slinger,
Where he gunned her down.
The white man,
Anger in his eyes,
Decided to give the slinger,
Leave this town,
Be gone by noon at best,
Or feel a bullet from my gun,
Deep in you'r chest.
The slinger smiled,
I am too fast,
You are an ole man,
You'r time has past.
You'r time has come ole man,
Take you'r stand,
But I tell you now,
Better have a fast hand.
When the smoke cleared,
The slinger lay on the ground,
With the white man,
The slinger had just one last request,
How did you learn to shoot that way?
The white man answered,
I'm the son of Doc Holiday.
heres how i see it
and heres how it is
living in this world where half of it is advanced
with indoor plumbing
and a huge chunk of the globe is not
part of the world still has a hole in the floor for a toilet
and we say ignorance is bliss
oh funny funny man on the moon
the joke you really meant in the Hollywood basement
of one giant step for man
and one leap for mankind
Have we not clued in yet?
Do we not live blind leading the blind?
Am i the only enlightened who realizes
that we were in space probably 70 years before we made it public to the world
and Nasa is full of it
oh funny funny funny man on the moon
why is society so gullible to think
that the governments technology hits the mainstream market
before they use it for years and perfect it and work out all the bugs
and then hands us something that just looks faulty
and we fall for it hook line and sinker
give me a moment
funny funny funny us
half the world buries their waste
and we flush it away
half the world has technology and half of it is in the stone age
and yet we seem to think
that whoever invents these things has no ties
or affiliation to putting us under their thumb
i mean come on do the math
they landed on the moon
how they tell you they send sattelites into space is a truth within alie
they made up 50 years ago
and were falling for it today
let me play
i get it
society is dumb
I'll write something yesterday
say i wrote it today
no one will know what to believe
I'll even put a cowboy hat on
I'm sure those cowboy western movies
they had just as many cameras and cellphones
but didn't release them in the market
consider yourself a fool
if you don't think they don't have something in their pocket full of tricks they are
working on right now
they're going to sell to the future
and no one gets the famous joke
the man on the moon told to the mensa geniuses
but a hush fell over the crowd
and I'm sure there was consequences for laughing
and chances are even they were blinded by the bling
life and blind leading the blind
such an easy concept to grasp
and man on the moon
your a funny funny funny man!
Oh, he rides though forest, he rides now through the hills—
The Pox Man is coming and he kills and he kills…
He lays waste to the red man and the white man, too—
He brings that soft darkness to both me and to you.
It may come with blankets; it may come with his horse—
It marks and gives you fever to run out its course.
He’s a tall, solemn scarred man that fills you with dread—
He may spare you your life or he’ll leave you for dead.
Oh, turn from the Pox Man – to him you do not pray,
His mercy is random, he has little to say.
He will ride off now soon - touch the weak with his breath—
He’s giver and taker – yes, we know him as death.
I do not know?
So strong and self assured
He rides alone always wanting more
Never satisfied with what's between those fences
His spirit will wake up your wildest senses
By the cross and thorns that is emblazoned on his arm
His substance runs deeper than his cowboy charm
A tame Christian man with a spirit wild
A man of God, he is your child
His reckless nature will never subside
Yet humble he still has his foolish pride
His heart is bigger than the tallest mountain high
And you feel weak when you look into his eyes
His hands so rough yet so soft to touch
For him no ride is ever too much
He welcomes the mystery that comes in the night
A lover at heart born ready to fight
The complexity of this cowboy man
Every woman dreams with him she would stand
Alone, looking at the midnight moon
In her dreams, she whispers...sometime soon
It sat way back in a thicket of of pine and oak
with the roof falling in and all the windows broke.
with brush as tall as the roofs eve,
to find this one could not believe.
I was chasing down this ferro calf,
as I went to dally, the rope snapped in half
dazed from the rope that bounced off my head
and hoping that would die, just left me seeing red
heading back to grab a new rope
is when my horse broke from his lope
he must have seen the same reflection as i
i saw the house, i thought who built here and why
I walked in just to check things out
all hand crafted furniture, they sure made em' stout
kicking though the dirt, was an old pair of spurs
aged from time i could only make out the word her's
an old letter, newspaper and the spurs was all i took
as i rode away i gave the ole house one last look
just as i left the canyon, i swear i heard a girl cry....
and only for that instant, my throat had went dry...
feeling uneasy about taking what was not mine
i searched for hours and could not find that thicket of pine
it was as if the house was not there
then a coyote cry came from nowhere..........
back at camp, I didn't know what to say
that old spanard saw the spurs and rode away.
yelling something about a cry from above
and never mess with true love.........??????
to this day i do not venture out,
my foot that kicked up that spur, is infested with gout.
everytime I look at those spurs
I hear the cry that must be her's...........
Whenever I see a horse decked out in fancy tack
or going round in circles, it always takes me back
to a part of my childhood I remember so well -
riding the carnival’s calliope carousel.
We’d purchase the tickets and the minutes we would count
until that gate opened and we’d race for our own mount.
The horses were all decorated in brightly colored array
and my favorite was a jumping horse, a big dappled grey.
It was exhilarating fun to sit on that equine toy.
I’d fantasize about me being a rootin’ tootin’ cowboy.
I loved the happy music as the racing horses spun
and I hated to dismount when the carousel was done.
Some kids would only ride for five minutes or so,
then they would lose interest and off they would go.
But I wouldn’t leave until they finally shut it down.
It was a circle of happiness, that wonderful merry-go- round
Some of the local thugs were tipping their mugs in the Malamute Saloon;
The music box sat still, as the keep slammed the till and wolves howled at the moon.
Then there appeared, right back of the bar, an apparition that no one knew;
Down in the dumps, that once Queen of the Trumps, sat the lady known as Lou.
It had been thirty years to the day it appears, that the famed shooting took place,
As Lou saw the scar on the man by the bar, she slowly recognized his face;
She quickly clutched at her throat for he had gotten her goat as she turned blue;
Because for all the world, playing a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew.
The now old man that plays the music box was starting a sad waltz song,
When in drifted a miner cold from the creeks that had prospected much too long.
Though most of the gold had long left the fold, a miner’s dust still had some joys,
He relished his women, booze and smokes, and bought drinks all around for the boys.
His eyes were the eyes of a man half-dead – a man that the world’s forgotten;
And Lou did think she’d seen him before, but lately her memory was rotten.
He toasted her health and counted his wealth, then drank long with that sodden crew;
And we wished him good cheer, then hoisted our beer to Dangerous Dan McGrew.
There was just the wind
in the tall swaying grass, a whisper
and no other sound.
The cattle were fed and
we were on the way home
when we saw a newborn calf on the ground.
The calf flicked an ear, but stayed
in his spot where his
mother told him to stay
when we had called
with the honk of horn
to come as we threw out the hay.
Now we watched, while the day
had come to its close the sunlight
lengthened and died
the air was filled with a cows low
moan and she ran as her newborn replied.
We sat holding hands as the
evening crept in and the stars
stood out in the sky
sharing that moment, a breathe in time
and a bovine lullabye.
Our New Year unfolded on the prairie
that night with a little black calf
on the ground, the whisper wind
in the tall swaying grass, a whisper
and no other sound.
While the Ancestors worshipped
they shot them one and all.
They thought they had stopped the dance
as they watched the Old Ones fall.
But what they did not know
is that we do not die...
Their bullets set us free
and sent our souls to fly.
High above this shadow plain
where the spirit beasts do roam;
We roost upon their sacred backs,
and the Buffalo carry us home.
We dance for our lives
for the secrets of the Earth.
We dance while they kill us
and through death find rebirth.
We dance night and day,
to the drums thundering low.
Singing medicine songs
to honor the Buffalo.
Though we may not rise today
The People will not die;
As long as we keep dancing,
the Ghosts...You...and I.
We dance for the things for which we yearn;
Grass covered plains, the Buffalo’s return.
The fever of freedom forever will burn,
While we’re dancing with the ghosts.
For there is no time frame on prophesy,
This is the Vision Great One gave to me,
The Heart of The People will always be,
Dancing with the Ghosts...
(Wado Waya Streeby for understanding.)