Cowboy Humorous Poems | Cowboy Poems About Humorous

These Cowboy Humorous poems are examples of Cowboy poems about Humorous. These are the best examples of Cowboy Humorous poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Rhyme |

In Lieu of the Rodeo

	Oh cripes I’ve gotta tell yer of a horror ride I had,
	That beat any bronc or bull I’ve rode, and I must say I’m glad,
	I’ll never have to ride like that, again to hold me seat.
	Now rodeo is ‘kiddies’ stuff compared to what I beat.  

	I’d been knockin’ ‘round the circuit an’ was headin’ to the ‘Hill’.
	I was lookin’ out for action ‘cause I had some time to kill,
	So I called to see a mate o’ mine, an’ he turned on a spree,
	But grog, peanuts and pickled onions don’t agree with me.

	I s’pose it was ‘round midnight, I stirred in his shearers hut.
	I woke up hearing grumblin’ an’ it was comin’ from me gut,
	So I thought I better visit the house that’s up the back.
	Me head was pretty ‘woosy’ an’ it was a wobbly track.

	But I settled down to do the job contented on the throne;
	Suddenly the still was broke an’ trees began to moan,
	The flamin’ breeze began to roar into a mighty squall,
	An’ branches broke, an’ iron crashed against the dunny wall.

	The dunny started moving and was leaning to one side,
	Just like the chute gate opened and I’m goin’ for a ride,
	One second I was bolt upright, and now I’m on me head,	
	I was clinging on a winner, and then we hit the shed.

	The dunny spun a circle and the dunny roll shot free,
	An' wrapped itself around me neck an’ damn near strangled me.
	Bloody redbacks started flying from their secret hidin’ place,
	An' I reckon that a hundred were clingin’ to me face.

	Then a resident old taipan who’d been dozing in the rafter
	Was flamin’ blamin’ me for this creation of disaster,
	It was snapping in the turmoil at me hands and at me feet,  
	But let me tell you hear and now. I held on to that seat.

	For nothing on this flamin’ earth would ever get to throw,
	Me from this position, ‘cause I know what’s down below,
	So when the twisting dunny bounced off a coupla’ trees,
	I had me ankles ‘round me ears and me head between me knees.

	Even then above the din I could hear the constant hum,
	From a hundred thousand blowflies bouncing off me bum.
	But let me tell you once again, it’ll be a mighty feat,
	For just one of them blowies to get past me on the seat.

	An' then just like it started, the wind subsided in the night,
	But I’m further up the track in the dunny back upright.
	I’m battered, bruised and bitten, still clinging to the seat,
	So at the rodeo ‘tomorra’… I’ll still be smelling sweet. 

Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2015

Details | Cowboy |

All Hat and No Cattle

They hung around the beer joint with the finest Western wear
with thumbs tucked in their belt loops and such a studly air.
But those boots weren't made for stirrups and were polished to a sheen,
and on those fancy cowboy hats not a sweat stain could be seen.

You could be sure they hadn't spent much time around a branding pot,
for the only brands they recognized were ones on stuff they bought.
And if they ever passed the time just musing 'bout their spread,
it'd be the one around their middle or the one they put on bread.

Just a bunch of cowboy wannabes in a modern masquerade,
but they drove the biggest pickup trucks that Detroit ever made.
The beds were big and beautiful without a scratch or scuff inside,
'cause the only thing they hauled around was a horse's big backside.

As they stood around outside the joint, in a smart-ass state of mind,
in pulled an ancient pickup with an old horse trailer hitched behind.
The truck an old green Chevy, year 'bout nineteen sixty-nine,
with two high wooden sideboards stacked with hay bales bound with twine.

Out stepped a skinny hombre, with steel-blue eyes and bandy legs,
but he had a rippling six-pack while all the boozers sported kegs.
His cowboy hat was sweat-stained; high-heeled boots were dusty gray;
he kicked off a chunk of cow pie, then he grabbed a bale of hay.

He was mighty parched and dusty, but he wouldn't quench his thirst
'cause you're not an honest cowboy unless you water horses first.
The pack of fools gave out a hoot, yelled "Hey there, Texas Pete!
Get yourself a man-sized truck and take that geezer off the street!"

As he finished with the horses, up walked two ladies smokin' hot.
The cowboy promptly doffed his hat, while the posers there did not.
The cowboy got a long admiring look and the rounders just a sneer,
as the sham was so apparent when a real cowboy was near

They flashed the dusty cowboy a big ol' smile 'bout ten miles wide...
Said "Honey, would a gent like you care to escort us gals inside?"
He winked, then gave the trucks a look and spat a stream of juice.
Said, "Boys, y'all's might be bigger, but mine gets a sight more use."

Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

Beg Your Pardon

Here’s a short story of a cowboy I knew
Whose name was Beg Your Pardon.
He wasn’t a gun slinger in the usual way,
Though his hands were fast
And his foots were faster.
But when Beg started shootin’
There was nuthin’ but disaster.

No worries for Beg, he had none you see,
Since he wasn’t a slinger in the usual way.
But his pappy got ugly
And yelled in his son’s face,
 “Until you can shoot
As the son of mine should,
I want you the h*** out of my place.”

Beg had some tricks up his very long sleeves,
Coz he wasn’t a slinger in the usual way.
He’d show his pappy his skill
There’s no doubt about that.
Yet time was a-wasten
So Beg he did hasten,
But first he took off his hat.

He then wound up his body like a Kansas twister
And slung a cow pie in his usual way.
And broke every record
Did our cow pie ringer.
Since there was no one better,
Pappy exclaimed to his son,
“Beg Your Pardon, I beg your pardon
Heck, you’re some kinda’ slinger!”
For Wild Wild West Contest

Copyright © David Fisher | Year Posted 2013

Details | Lyric |

Cowboys Can Change

Inspired by another poem by another poet---------just for fun

Oh, I didn't know that cowboys
weren't respected and revered
John Wayne, when he passed away
Brought me close to tears
But now I know that people
Think we're all just trailer trash
So I've taken of my boots
And tossing out my hats

There's no more eating beans
upon these dirty plates
And movin' from this trailer park
Oh brother I can wait
But, putting cars on blocks
Oil changes in the yard
Stopping those activities
I swear it will be hard

Beer cans won't get piled high
In a pyramid, way out back
My pit bulls won't be barkin'
Always ready to attack
Soon I'll trade-in my pick-up
For a brand new SUV
And I'll become more citified 
For the whole dang world to see

I won't mistreat my woman
And call her an old cow
And I won't let my kid's
Ride a bull, or catch a sow
Oh, I didn't know that cowboys
Were just lazy and no good
So we're moving from the country
Right to your neighborhood 

Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014

Details | Cowboy |

Call Me Tex

When I was just a teenage lad, and growing up out west
I never wore a cowboy hat or fancy leather vest
Never put on cowboy boots or western shirts with snaps
Never wore tooled leather belts, much less a pair of chaps

To be in style the Ivy League was what one wore to school
A skinny tie and button-down was how you dressed up cool
We wore Weejun penny loafers and tapered chino slacks
The boys all sported flattops, kept up straight with wax

Rock and roll and sock hops, my dance was then the twist
Cotton-eyed Joe and two-step didn't even make the list
Good ol' Willie Nelson could hardly make a sound
'Cause the King and Frank Sinatra were the coolest guys around

But when I joined the service, and moved outside the state
It didn't matter where I went or if I spoke my name out straight
For a while I thought I had some kind of omnipresent hex
'Cause when I was out of Texas, they'd always call me Tex
When I said over yonder, they'd all say “Over... Where?”
When I talked about a horny toad, I'd get a funny stare
It didn't matter if my name was Buck or Roy or Rex
'Cause when I was out of Texas, they'd always call me Tex

When they shipped me overseas, I thought that I would die
Couldn't get a Dr. Pepper there, or any Frito pie
When I wanted longneck Lone Stars, all they had was Beck's
And all those Europeans would always call me Tex
Any label kind of burned me, so right then I made the call
I'd learn to talk just like those guys, to hide my Texas drawl
I practiced on my diction, with elocution persevered
And soon the sideways looks and grins had finally disappeared

I traveled all around the world, got married overseas
Learned myself a few more tongues and got a few degrees
Now if I talk to British lords or English-speaking Czechs
When I masticate the lingo, they never call me Tex

Finally made it home one day, after way too many years
Came back to salute old pals and maybe share some beers
I wondered how the touch of time had treated all those lads
To my surprise, those preppy guys had all turned into their dads

Each one wore a cowboy hat and dandy leather vest
Some sported a bandana, some with bola ties were dressed
Some shod those M.L. Leddy boots with fancy pull-on straps
Each had a set of bootcut jeans and western shirts with snaps

Something then came over me, something that felt right
I heard my voice inside me say "Well boys, ain't y'all a sight!”
That educated accent that I'd worked so hard to gain
Had evaporated quicker than a light West Texas rain

I guess that you can travel, and learn lots of fancy stuff
But with friends who knew you when, there's no way that you can bluff
They might be polite with you, and humor you no doubt 
But you're better off to cut it loose and let it all hang out

They all let out a holler, yelling “Waitress bring the checks!
Give 'em to that ugly hombre yonder with the handle Tex.”
Now if I were any other place, I'd likely wring their necks
But when I'm home in Texas, then you can call me Tex

Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2013

Details | Limerick |

Absent-minded Hank

Thar was once an old buckaroo named Hank,
   Who was very absent-minded and lank.

      He told his hoss to skedaddle,

         Fergittin' to mount the saddle.

            'Twas not the first time old Hank drew a blank!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2015

Details | Lyric |

Viagra and Beer

Too much Viagra and beer.
Too much Viagra and beer.
My wife was out of town,
I hit every club around.
Each time I'd hope to find
A horny woman here.

Country Bob's was the last club that was open.
Near blind drunk and horny, but I was still hopin'.
A pretty woman gave me a glance,
Smiled and said, "Nice pants.
Honey, I'm ridin' if you're ropin'."

A few hours later, I was in a Helluva mess
She's still ridin' hard and screamin', "God, this is the best!"
I was dizzy and light-headed. I had pains in my chest,
But she wouldn't stop long enough to call EMS.

When I came to, I was home in my own bed,
Next to my lovely wife; and this is what she said:
"I picked you up at Country Bob's, my dear;
And there's gonna be some changes around here.

You were fantastic last night;
So, I only think its right
If I supplement your diet 
With Viagra and beer."

Viagra and beer. Viagra and beer.
She treats me like a king,
Says I make her body sing;
So, She makes sure I get my Viagra and beer.

Viagra and beer. Viagra and beer.
Yeah, she makes sure I get my Viagra and beer.

We're like newlyweds. 
I need a break sometime.

Submitted by: Buzz O'Words
Written: 3/3/14

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |

Hank's Last Roundup

Hank had cowboyed on the Triple T Ranch fer nigh on fifty years.
He'd rode the range herdin' beef peerin' betwixt his hoss's ears.
Durin' cattle stampedes he'd broke bones and many a time was throwed,
And he'd been astraddle his saddle so long that his legs was stiffly bowed!

He loved the cowpokin' life but he didn't become rich by any means.
He'd even come to savor Cooky's usual grub of bacon, taters and beans.
Durin' brandin' time he roped and branded many a steer's scruffy hide.
He was a master with the brandin' arn and he wielded it with skillful pride!

He liked lollin' 'round the campfire a-jawin' with pards beneath the stars,
Sippin' java that smelled like old socks, smokin' roll-yer-owns and ceegars.
He pulled many a nighttime guard duty in sleet, snow and peltin' rain,
Blowin' on his harmonica to calm skittish herds which was quite a strain!

He'll miss huddlin' 'round the bunkhouse stove as storms blew driftin' snow,
While he and his pals listened to Tex sawin' away with his fiddle and bow.
Hank hung up his scruffy boots, tattered chaps and sweat-stained hat.
He'd already given away his well-worn saddle and his 44 caliber gat.

This was Hank's last roundup herdin' cattle to Abilene up the dusty trail,
Cussin' and sweatin' to get 'em loaded up to ship on the Chicago rail.
He stopped by fer a few snorts with the boys at the Long Branch cabaret,
Then cantered off into the sunset on Old Dan his trusty hoss, callin' it a day!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |

Armadilly Billy and the Buzzard Rustlers

Armadilly Billy the Sling Shot Kidster, was the Sheriff of our town.
When mangy rustlers went into action, he was wont to hunt them down.
‘The Buzzard’ and his surly gang of rustlers of epically, bad renown…
Had picked Texas and other states clean, and were on the move, NOW!

A terrible dust storm, dumped them smack dab, into our piece of territory.
The evil buzzard leader sat, now contemplating, upon the hangman’s tree.
His gang was ready to rustle, as he sat scoping out, many a nefarious deed.
Their base camp was an Old Box canyon, not far, and full of tumbleweeds.

Now, snail rustling’s a crime, so word got out, of where they’d be found.
As they’d gleaned, every single snail, grazing in all the creeks, all around.
The outlaws were expecting soon, to get away quite clean, with them all.
But the sheriff of our town, Billy was steamed, and he was standing tall.

Billy went on the move, and he meant business, if you know, what I mean.
Yep! He’s tough! He’s mean! He’s focused! His eyes were hard and lean!
While ‘The Buzzard’s’ head was bald, eyes cruel, his stance was cold as ice.
In the box canyon they’d be snail kabobs, by sundown, if Billy didn’t strike.

The snails were easy to follow, just had to follow their trail of yucky slime.
With Billy’s trusty stead Jalopy, they were at the boxed canyon by noontime.
Now, No One, and I mean NO ONE, steals, while Billy’s Sheriff in any town.
That no good, low down, Buzzard better watch out, for he’d now been found.

When Billy arrived they were loading snails into a boxcar to ship for Escargot.
The French black market in Quebec would offer a price, beyond compare so… 
To bring them buzzards down, Billy’s slingshot clipped each wing and tail.
Without their feathers they couldn’t fly so they couldn’t remotely prevail. 

But not without looking each one in the eye, for he was the good guy, after all.
There was neigh a feather left, as they were buzzard bait, way before nightfall.
But who can tell on a buzzard, for they don’t have much to start with, anyway.
Now they were the one’s loaded on a train set to Yuma, to prison all the way.

The moral to my story is that: Crime never EVER pays. Besides…
Snail rustling is just plain dumb! They’re so slow, that it's a pain!

To the music: The Good The Bad and the Ugly.

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |

Cowboy Saturday Night Hoedown

The cows is lowin' in the old corral and all the evenin' chores is done.
Hank scraped the manure off'n his boots 'cause he's a fastidious son-of-a-gun.
He drew his pay, jumped in his pickup and headed fer Clyde's Saloon,
To quaff some brew, grab a gal er two and dance to the fiddler's tune!

There was a hoedown at Clyde's where cowpokes met ever' Saturday night.
There they danced, boozed and let off steam that usually ended in a fight!
There was a band with drums, banjo, fiddle, bass and a steel git-tar,
And the pianer player Mike McGurk (when they could pry him from the bar!)

A gal named Mousy Bush sang with a voice that quivered like Robin Hood's bow.
That's where Hank hung out Saturday nights to blow his hard-earned dough!
Hank was dancin' the Texas Two Step and havin' the time of his life,
When an incident occurred that occasioned another night of strife.

Some dude splattered a Coors on Hank's new Calvin Klein shirt and jeans.
Now, stuff happens and normally this wouldn't amount to a hill of beans,
But this got Hank's dander up and since he never held his hootch all that well,
He punched the guy, bloodied his schnoz and began a-raisin' hell.

A grand brawl ensued with ever'one tossin' punches, chairs and tables.
There was a heap of cussin' with patrons lablin' others with tawdry lables!
Hank arose Sunday mornin' with a poundin' headache and two black eyes,
But he'll be back at Clyde's Saturday next to enjoy a hoedown with the guys!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved

(Not for the contest)

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |

Real Cowboys Don't Sing Honky-Tonk Songs

When cowboys sprawl 'round the camp fire after the days work is done,
They strum guitars and tootle harmonicas and sing to have fun.
Real cowboys don't sing Honky-Tonk or She Done Me Wrong stuff.
They leave that to rhinestone cowboys, considerin' it to be so much fluff!

Real wranglers sing about ropin' dogies and fixin' barbed wire fences,
Roundups, brandin' time and the magnificence of God's grand expanses.
They sing of home on the range, rodeos and dinin' on bacon and beans,
Cattle stampedes on stormy nights, the old corral and dance hall queens.

They harmonize about ghost riders in the sky who've met their fates,
Tumblin' tumbleweeds, cool water, tin cups and eatin' from tin plates.
They sing about bein' back in the saddle again and the streets of Laredo,
And belt out songs about horses named Old Paint, Ol' Dan and Tornado.

They yodel the cattle call and sing about when the bloom's on the sages,
And croon about their yellow rose of Texas and their pitiful wages.
Real buckaroos sing about Christmas in the bunk house and rye whiskey,
Cattle drives on the Lone Star and Abilene trails and a life so very risky.

They sing of the grumpy foreman and when the works all done this fall,
And tweedle about ragtime cowboy Joe and many a barroom brawl.
Real cowboys sing about ridin' the range, the chaparral and dusty trail,
And leave Hank Snow to warble about lost love, honky-tonks and landin' in jail!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |

I'm A-hangin' Up My Spurs

Hank had cowboyed and rodeoed fer nigh on forty years,
Ridin' in sleet, rain and snow a-herdin' cantankerous steers.
His hide was tough as leather and his legs was slightly bowed,
But brandin' dogies and fixin' fences was all he ever knowed!

His gut was made of iron from a diet of taters, beans and bacon.
Many times he was throwed from his hoss but his will remained unshaken.
He'd been bit by rattlesnakes and scarred from many barroom brawls,
And kicked by many a skittish bronc while muckin' out their stalls!

When tryin' to halt stampedes, Hank was often gravely gored,
And was hoarse from yellin' and cussin' at that riotous horde.
When shoein' hosses they often left an imprint on his chest,
Where flyin' hoofs landed leavin' him angry and depressed!

He didn't git rich and couldn't hoard money fer a rainy day;
Not much chance of accumulatin' such on a cowpokes meager pay.
His bed was usually 'neath the stars with his saddle fer a pillow,
Sharin' space with his old dog Spike and an occasional armadillo!

One day he up and told the boss, "I've had my fill of a cowboy's life.
I'm a-quittin' as of now.  My old bones is weary from all this strife.
I'm saddle sore and tired of bunkhouse livin' and all yer stingin' slurs.
You kin take this job and shove it 'cause I'm a-hangin' up my spurs!"

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |

The Yodelin' Cowboy

Hank was a hard workin' cowpoke who really earned his meager pay.
He rode his ass Old Red from early dawn 'til at night he hit the hay,
Fixin' fences, ropin' steers and brandin' dogies in the old corral,
But he had an odd addiction that gnawed on his pard's morale!

He was a happy yodler which is alright fer a wrangler I suppose,
But his irritatin' warblin' caused him to nearly come to blows!
At night in the bunkhouse he would even yodel in his sleep,
Addin' to the din of his pals who were known fer snorin' deep!

His yodelin' caused cattle to stampede and hosses to buck and neigh.
Caused chickens to cease layin' aigs and cantankerous mules to bray!
Porkers squealed in their sty and the hounds barked and howled,
His comrades raged and cussed and the cats all hissed and yowled!

Even rattlesnakes were flustered and slithered to hide in dens,
And bands of coyotes skulked to seek cover in the nearby fens.
Frenzied birds vacated their cozy nests and fled to distant climes,
And Cookie got upset since the guys couldn't hear his supper chimes!

The grizzled old ranch boss called Hank aside fer a serious session,
Sayin', "Son, you're creatin' havoc 'round hyar with yer damn obsession!
Take yer ass and yodler to swoon the gals at the Dry Gulch Saloon,
'Cause if'n you keep it up 'round hyar, you'll hit the road and soon!"

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2015

Details | Lyric |

Please Help Me, Re-lyric

Please help me, I've fallen
In Lust with You.
You're just so damn sexy,
That's why I'm hittin' on you.
You don't have to love me,
Some good sex will do.
Please help me, I've fallen
In Lust with You.

Yes, you turned me on
When I saw you walk in...
The face of an Angel,
A body just made for Sin.
Now, I may be real horny,
But one thing is true:
What would satisfy me, Girl
Would be to satisfy You.

So please help me, I've fallen
In Lust with You; 
And I hope that you're fallin'
In Lust with me too;
But if not, then please fake it,
Please don't leave me "blue"...
Please help me, I've fallen
In  Lust  with  You.

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

Details | Couplet |

Badmouthin' In The Badlands

Said Hank to his pard, "I reckon we took a wrong turn back yonder!
How we ended up in this here gawd awful place I'll ferever ponder."

"Ya shoulda listened to me when we come to that Y in the trail,
But, no, you insisted we go left an' here we are!" he went on to rail!

"We ain't got a lick uv water an' I don't see none in them hogbacks.
We ain't met a livin' soul 'cept some prairie dogs an' diamondbacks!"

"Ho! Is them Injuns I hear comin' over that ridge back thar a-hollerin'?
This is jes' another fine skillet uv feesh ya have managed to git us in!"

"Buck up ol' pard" said Tex to his pal. "I'm sure they is friendly types,
Wantin' to parley fer some coffee, sugar an' terbaccy fer thar pipes!"

"But I reckon we shouldn't take chances an' if'n yer willin' ol' pard,
Me an' my hoss is leapin' off'n this cliff tho' the landin' be mighty hard!"

They took the plunge diggin' deep furrows with their noses in the ground!
Accordin' to lore this is how Black Hills gold in the Badlands was found!

Entry fer Isaiah Zerbst's "Cowboys In The Badlands" Contest

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |

Childhood Friends ---Boy

Childhood Friends (Boys)

Fishing lines and fishing poles
sinkers, hooks and bobbers.
Maybe someday we will go
when we're not playing cops and robbers.

Cowboy hats and balls and bats
my horse an old broom stick.
Can you see? Come look at me!
I learned a magic trick.

Spit balls shot but I got caught
Tommy points and grins.
You did it too I could tell on you.
I miss my childhood friends.

Make no mistakes we're catching snakes
to play with in the yard.
I didn't cry it ain't no lie
when I got spanked real hard.

Racing trains and playing games
this ain't no place for girls.
Summer sun and carnival fun
we wanna ride the Tilt-a-Whirls.

Our first late night but we're alright
see how the scary movie ends.
Creepy crawlers crept our secrets kept
I miss my childhood friends.

Edwin C Hofert

Copyright © Edwin Hofert | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |

Cowboy Hoe Down

On a Sunday in the evening
The old barn becomes a hall
Social place where every weekend
The town folk go for a ball.

The inside is decorated  
Lights are lit, the banners sway
By the walls barrels and cartwheels
Wooden stools and bales of hay.

Everybody loves a shindig
Where square dancing is the craze
Violins, guitars and banjos
Hillybilly music plays.

There’s a guy who’s always present
He’s the handsome Cowboy Kurt
On his head a leather Stetson
Dressed in jeans and chequered shirt.

Carol comes in golden pigtails
Gorgeous looking in flared skirt
She stands out; her smile is charming
She is hot and likes to flirt.

Cowboy Kurt looks quite appealing
He taps his feet to the beat
As other couples are reeling
Pretty Carol takes a seat.

Kurt decides to mosey on up
And lay his heart on the line
See if Carol would share some grub
Perhaps a swig of moonshine.

Tiny Carol surprises Kurt
Chugging down half a bottle
She eyes him coyly, looking pert
Then starts to jig full throttle.

Stunned Kurt is reeling to and fro
As wee Carol takes the lead
Dance floor clears; they put on a show
Kurt looks like a tumbleweed.

Music wouldn’t stop fast enough
For Kurt who couldn’t square dance
Carol is made of tougher stuff
And has high hopes for romance.

Totally lit and loving it
Carol trots to the outhouse
But when she returns, Kurt has split
“Where’s my man?” Carol does grouse

In his truck Kurt has hit the trail
Head still spinning from the dance
Carol sits upon a hay bale
Hoping he’ll return to prance.

After the hoe down was over
Banjos and fiddles tucked away
Cowboy Kurt was still a rover
Out cold on the hay Carol lay.

*Written October 6, 2014 
by Paul Callus and Carolyn Devonshire

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |

Pie Eyed Spittoon

Out of the west, amide a beautiful sunrise… came a pie eyed son of a gun.
Looking for Armadilly Billy the Sling Shot Kidster… water gun… in hand.
He rode a very slow plug, an inchworm called ‘Giddy-Up-You-Lazy-Thing’.
Said he was seeking, Billy the outlaw, who had shot his brother in the leg.

But we all knew Billy hadn’t done it, cause he simply, shook his… head… no…
Sure he’d shot a few snakes in the grass, in the range war, way up North, long ago.
But he’d known everybody there; this one, was only here, to try to build a name.
Pie Eyed Spittoon the Rodeo Clown, was looking to earn some respect, with fame.

Now, you don’t find respect by drawing a water gun; it’s always a loosing game.
So we told him, Billy had moseyed on, somewhere way down south, late last May.
To our surprise, he sat down and cried; there was only so much he could take, to face.
Apparently, guy ladybugs don’t get much respect, especially in a fancy, rodeo place.

At that, Miss Kitty Purrfect, sashayed into place, right in front of Pie Eyed Spittoon.
She ask him what his real name was… He answered, it was Wilber Wash Number Two.
Taking him by the hand, she deftly led him off, giving him ideas for a great bar room.
A fancy pants Troll Lake Town sarsaparilla saloon, where flowers would be in bloom.

They would even serve High Tea with scones and crumpets, of course, in a back room.
But, there'd be a tin pan ally, piano in great use, in that bar area, up front, real soon.
Miss Kitty Purrfect would sit on top to sing a tune or two, as Mr. Spittoon kept the bar.
She would be his partner, to help liven up the crowd, and keep them from straying far. 

The Muskrat Gang could clean up in their spare time when their other work was done.
Silk worms would be ordered from China Town, to make fancy drapes, in the bargain.
And Spittoon could serve Sarsaparilla, as Billy controlled the, sometimes-rowdy crowd.
All got what they’d wanted, without a single shot being fired, smart, don’t you think?

Troll Lake town was growing, at a rapid rate, but all were sure, it would be OK.
Armadilly Billy the Slingshot Kidster, was voted, as the sheriff in Town, that day.
And with Miss Kitty Purrfect by Billy’s side, a new era had definitely, begun in town.
Not to mention Mr. Spittoon, who enjoyed the respect, as barman, in our boomtown.

The moral my friend… is violence never wins… always use your head instead!
Making friends, will always serve you better, than making enemy’s… it’s often said!

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |

He Likes Ugly Girls

Baby, I saw you starin' at him,
But you ought to give me a whirl;
'Cuz he's a handsome hunk,
But when he gets drunk
Baby, he likes ugly girls.

Yeah, he still lives with his momma,
Even tho' he's thirty-three.
She starches and irons his jeans and shirts 
And he brings home new recipes.

She's told him he's good lookin';
Says, "Women are lustin' after you."
But when he takes a pretty woman home,
Momma says, "Son, she won't be true."

Momma says, "Son, if you want good lovin', 
A plain and homely gal will provide.
She'll treat you right, mornin' and night, 
And keep you satisfied." 

So, baby, you can stare at him;
But you ought to give me a whirl.
'Cuz he's a handsome hunk;
but when he gets drunk, 
Baby, he likes ugly girls.

Yeah, Baby.....ugly girls.
You don't stand a chance.
And how that boy loves his momma.
Wouldn't you like to dance?

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |

What Might Have Been Grand by Wee Luck Mc Gee

Well, Finn and Mc Gee 
Were riding along
Headed back home
When something looked wrong

So, Finn off his horse
Now looked all around
He said, "We are lost
But, there's something we've found"

"Look at this massive 
Whole in this plain
We'll never get home
This is insane"

"A canyon like this
What an unlucky find
We can't ride around it
We haven't the time"

"And we can't ride down through it
There isn't a way
If even there was
We'd be dead in a day"

So Mc Gee very calmly
with shovel in hand
Said "Well, we'd better get crackin'
And fill it with sand"

Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |

Bacon, Biscuits and Beans

A cowpokes life is a rough one and when he draws his monthly pay,
He mounts his hoss and gallops to town to visit the local cabaret.
He scrubs the manure from his boots and dons a decent pair of jeans,
Hopin' to find some tolerable grub instead of bacon, biscuits and beans!

He spends his days herdin' ornery longhorns and fixin' barbed wire fences,
Ridin' in nasty weather and eatin' dust 'til he nearly loses his senses!
Fer all of this he expects some decent grub at the end of ever' day,
But Cooky dispenses bacon, biscuits and beans the same as yesterday!

Chuck is served up on battered tin plates and tin cups fer slurpin' joe,
And if'n you don't like it, Cooky is mighty quick to tell ya where to go!
The fellers complain to the trail boss but it don't do a damn bit of good.
He tells 'em, "If'n you don't like it here, find yerself another livelihood!"

At the cabaret he's confounded by the chinaware and fancy silverware,
And instead of sittin' on the ground to eat, he sits on a rickety chair!
He consumes a colossal steak with sweet peas and smashed pertaters,
A couple of beers and a salad of onions, lettuce and fresh termaters.

He and his old cayuse slowly meander back to the ranch to hit the hay,
But he'll return to the cabaret next month when he collects his meager pay.
He savored his scrumptious meal of countless calories and proteins,
'Cause he knows that tomorrow he'll be eatin' bacon, biscuits and beans!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2016

Details | Rhyme |

Cowboy Heaven

They planted Hank 'neath a lonesome pine when he came to the end of the trail.
Angels ushered him to the Great Beyond and through that Mysterious Veil.
Saint Peter greeted him, sayin', "I've been a-hankerin' to meet ya, mate!"
Hank noted a sign readin' 'COWBOY SPOKEN HERE' atop the pearly gate!
"I want ya to meet a posse of pards that've been awaitin' yer arrival Hank;
There's Zeke and Tex, Fred and Jack, Moe and Slade and Jed and Frank."
"Ain't no bacon er beans here" said they, "On the choicest grub we dine!
If'n ya hanker to wet yer gullet, there's a Feller who'll turn water into wine!
And then appeared his faithful hoss Old Dan a-sportin' golden shoes!
Old Dan neighed as Hank caressed his pal and they had a genial schmooze!
On Old Dan's back embellished with silver and gold was a western saddle.
Right then and there Hank mounted Old Dan and off they did skedaddle!
As the Lord promised in the Good Book, a bunkhouse was part of the deal.
He dwelt in a room fit for a King with TV and DVD, seeming so surreal!
Hank wore a cowboy suit adorned with diamonds, rubies and jade,
Plus pointy-toed Calvin Klein cowboy boots and a vest of finest suede!
Lastly, Saint Peter placed upon his brow a bejeweled ten-gallon crown,
Sayin', "Welcome to the ranch, pard! Ye've rode the range with great renown!"

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2016

Details | Carpe Diem |


Your  love pricks me like a rose each thorn grows but no one knows Your so full of 
it as it shows so carry on now go on, go. I'm fed up with the phony and  i'm 
through with the tears, you couldn't pay me all your money to make up for those 
years. Someone help me I feel faint how could I think he was such a saint and 
worst of all I let me fall into a spiral down below. A magic called love carried 
by the dove of someone I use to know.

Copyright © Sam Ruby | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |

Cowboy Train To Heaven

Standing all alone, at the edge of time. With no where left to fall, and no where else to climb. I feel like I'm standing back at the end of the line. Of that soul collecting train that I missed the very first time. It don't matter much to me you see, I'm just going to stand right here and wait. For that golden train to pull in, that's taken me to the pearly gates. When that train pulls out your going to hear me yell. As I'm leaving this here place that is now a man made hell. Where all the politics and corruption, of this once great and mighty place. Turned into need and greed that just fills me with disgrace. Now I am far from perfect, God knows that is true. But, I'm praying for forgiveness, and I suggest, that you do too. So when that train pulls in to take us from this man made hell. Grab the seat right next to me and we can both then yell! YEEEEEEEEE HAAAAAAA!!!
Dan Kearley: 3-24-16

Copyright © Dan Kearley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Couplet |

Standup for Jack

Good old Jack wants more poems that are funny
With some humor I might make some money

I could do standup make them all chuckle
Wear a cowboy hat and a big buckle

My jokes might be lame, my spirits may sink
I'll get more funny, once they start to drink

I'd talk bout the country, home on the range
maybe bout my horse, perhaps that is strange

Some cowboy Karaoke might do the trick
If only I could sing they may not get sick

I will give it a try for my good friend Jack
It won't last very long so I will be back

Dedicated to Jack Ellison.

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |

Can A Cowboy Be DEranged

In a public washroom, can Kings ever be DEthroned? When a cowboy moves to the city, is he DEranged? Do photographers wishes sometimes DEvelop? Are former famous models ever DEposed? When a ship leave for the Caribbean, is it DEported? Do lawyers sometimes sit on Defence? When a man gets ready for bed, does he DEbrief? If they drain the waterway around a castle, is it DEmoted? When a male is castrated, is he DEmand? When a scholar is sent back, is he DEgraded? Can a lady of the streets ever be DElayed? Do certain shampoos help you DEflect? When a doctor withdraws a needle, is the patient DEjected? Can a person survive without DEliver? If you tear up an agreement, do you DEsign? Can baseball player ever DEposition? Ever seen a dog chasing DEtail? If you lose your extra tire, do you DEspair? Do manicurists sometimes DEfile When a downpour stops, does it DEluge? When a student leaves school, does he DEclassify? Can someone's old clothing DEfray? Does a coffin always contain a DElivered? Can a movie star ever be DEfamed? © Jack Ellison 2013

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |

Hank's Waterloo

Cowpoke Hank hired on fer a dollar a day and found.
He wuz knowed as the best bronc-buster around!
They wuz allus a roll-yer-own a-danglin' frum his lips,
And he wore a pair of 44 shootin' arns on his hips.

He wuz lean and lank and had spent nigh thirty years in the saddle.
He wuz bow-legged as a pliers havin' spent all that time astraddle!
Wearin' an old slouch hat, bandana and scruffy pointy-toed boots,
He'd throwed a ton uv steers ridin' outta county rodeo chutes!

"Thar stands the orn'riest critter alive!", the boss implied.
"They ain't no mustang 'round I cain't tame!", Hank replied.
Other cowpunchers ambled to the corral to enjoy the show,
And with knowin' grins watched as Hank earned his dough!

The bronc jes stood thar snortin' with fire in his eyes!
Hank could see trouble brewin'! Boys, wuz he in fer a su'prise!
Sech hossflesh he'd never rode!  He'd never seen sech gyrations!
His old bones had never experienced sech joltin' sensations!

He wuz throwed, stomped and wedged agin' the fence.
With his pals cheerin' him on, things wuz a-gittin' tense!
He finally allowed, "Boys, I give up! He's done beat me good!
I reckon I'd better find myself another livelihood!"

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |

Cowboy's Ordeal

The sun isn't totally up;
a cowboy looks at a map.

His mind anticipates treasures,
filled with mystical features.

He wants to be very rich,
until he's out of reach.

You see, he has a farm,
which makes little pocket sum.

One time, his cows were on the loose;
he tripped as he ran wearing soggy shoes.

He fell on a pile of cow-dung;
he felt like he could hung.

Angrily he stepped on his truck's gas,
and looked for the best road to pass.

You see, he lives in a rocky place,
where the tires need God's grace.

His car moved along really fast,
almost having his face covered by his hat.

At the time he was really really angry;
without breakfast he wasn't hungry.

Suddenly his truck ran out of fuel;
he felt his day was truly cruel.

Getting out of his old, 60s truck,
he angrily threw it a good kick.

"Oh, this is all a curse!"
he cried out.
His foot's pain needed a nurse,
but he was somewhere remote.

Farm life to him is something difficult;
he wonders how Rome came to be built.

He wants to be very rich,
until he's out of reach.....

Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2017

Details | Cowboy |


Pappy Brisco was a clown
who insisted never to frown,
he painted his face with a smile,
the broadest grin to beguile,
his bushy eyebrows glued on tight,
which sometimes caused a fright,
a bright-red protruding nose
added to his exaggerated pose,
he stretched his wig of blond curly locks,
covering his bald head looking like a field of flocks.

At a young age he wanted to be a rodeo clown
saving cowboys in case they fell down,
being chased by a brahma bull,
gave him a thrill that was so full
of dreams of being applauded
before a rowdy crowd who lauded
his bravery and skill of being nimble
to defy the most meanest and burliest symbol.

One day Pappy met Diablo the most feared bull around,
he was a cross-eyed masculine bovine who hated being bound,
freedom was what he wanted not the rodeo and its gate,
he'd get rid of that cowboy on his back and mark his fate,
bucking off the contender gave him some pride,
as his eyes narrowed like two slits he saw how Pappy tried
to distract him from crushing the man on the ground,
Diablo snorted and ran as if he was the speed of sound,
chasing Pappy till he looked up and saw pretty Maisy-Daisy
the Jersey cow sauntering toward him and mooing like crazy,
off they went to look for greener pastures and leaving 
everyone wondering what happened to Diablo's heart
which once was mean and would stomp a man apart.

Now Pappy Brisco is still a clown and he works at 
birthday parties carrying balloons and a bat
in case he meets up with Diablo out in the field,
knowing this time he is well armed and will not yield.

Copyright © Sonia Walker | Year Posted 2016

Details | Limerick |

'Six Little Fingers' or The Norwich song

When I was a boy of two or three,
My dad and cousin said to me;
'You'll be the gee-tar player in a big folk band',
‘'With those six little fingers on your right webbed hand',
So he went straight out to make me a star,
And he sold his horse and bought a new gee-tar; 
But a band needs maybe two or three, 
So my daddy brought in some family.
There was cousin Jeb with his massive chin, 
He could play pee-anna and the violin, 
There was cousin Pete on the double bass, 
His teeth were huge and covered half his face.
My cousin Jane was an easy choice,
With her long gold hair and an angels voice;
And daddy noticed too that as she grew, 
She had udders like our old cow daisy too.
We practised hard till we were good,
But every now and then we would;
Be forced to play without our singer,
Cause she'd be in the hay with a local minger.
So when we'd growed and we could play,
We loaded up the cart one day,
We headed out, past our own land
With my six little fingers on my webbed right hand.
We got on stage on the opening night,
My hand felt stiff and my stomach tight; 
But we couldn't begin without our Jane, 
And she'd disappeared round the back again.
The curtain opened but the stage was bare, 
We couldn't find jane anywhere; 
Then I found them bangin in the nearest loo,
 Now cousin jane is my auntie too!
We came back to Norwich and broke up the band,
I'm not the big star that Daddy had planned,
But I'm the fastest milker in the whole damned land, 
With my six little fingers on my webbed right hand.

Copyright © David Horne | Year Posted 2016