Cowboy Melancholy

I’m calling the Suicide Hotline, This sad Cowboy poetry is getting me down, I’m looking for a happy thought, But one just can’t be found. I’ve got a case of Cowboy Melancholy, Depression of the deepest kind, A malady that causes Cowboy Poets, To think only in disparaging rhyme. Perhaps you’ve not heard of it, It’s a little talked about affliction, That sneaks up rather slowly, And attacks a Cowboy’s diction. It starts with Cowboys talking, About having to shoot their horse, Or the death of the very last Longhorn, And Cowboy life having run it’s course. They tell about being stomped by a bronc, About how women will break your heart, Don’t say there won’t be no more Cowboys, Please, just leave out that part. Death, dismemberment, getting gored, It makes me sorrowful and morose, I tell you these gloomy Cowboy poems, Boarder upon the verbose. Is there nothing to say that’s amusing? Or perhaps a bit light-hearted? Is Cowboy life, nothing but strife, And all about the dearly departed? Does any one remember, When Cowboy poetry was fun? I tell you we got us a Crisis ! Quick ! Someone call COW-1-1 !!! We need some recitation resuscitation, If Cowboy poetry we are to save, Go easy on that couplet verse, About Cowboys in unmarked graves. Hook those paddles to our pencils, And everyone stand clear, Shock the daylights out of us, Till we write Cowboy poetry delightful to hear. I vote we form a support group, With a name somewhat synonymous, A two-step Western program of sorts, And call it Cowboy Poets Anonymous. I suppose I could surrender to the urge, Recite just one poem of despondent refrain, But I took the oath, and from this day on, From this Cowboy Curse I’ll try to abstain. " Hi, my name is ________, (fill in the blank!) and I’m a Cowboy Poet... " Copyright © 1999 Debra Coppinger Hill