Skulking between the thinning clumps
Of tattered sedge
A balding coot despondently calls,
Scratching Blackbirds scutter deeply
Into a Hawthorn hedge;
Whilst, creeping stealthily,
Gathering darkness onwardly crawls.
The blackened Moorhen washes the clinging
Soot from his feathered form,
Rising above the mirrored pond in awkward
Gathering clouds mumble softly of an
When, silently menacing, inwards marches
The approaching night.
Listening intently, between murmurs upon
I check my step and briefly pause -
To catch a low sigh whispered from among
The sullen trees...
A last desperate plead of their lost cause.
For now billowing cumulonimbus sags
And begs to stall,
As, slowly homeward bound, I gather
About me to hastily make;
Where, circling high in rushing element,
The ragged Buzzard begins to fall...
Upon Heavens gathered Furies -
That so conspire to thunderously break!
Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2014
A cummerbund of peach and tangerine
below Persian blue sky now washes pale
Marsh Harriers and Starlings call, unseen
competing in bizarre chromatic scales.
Sewn onto the horizon like a hem,
crisp cardboard cut outs on a puppet's stage
black silhouettes of trees break up the Fen,
companions, my deep solitude assuaged.
A circling buzzard ends his last foray,
for him the next meal cannot come too soon,
the evening takes it's leave and says good-day,
lopsided smile upon Lincolnshire moon.
Now turning a full circle, one last gaze
with hope in such peace I can end my days.
Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2016
Well they are here again
Knocking on my door
Monopolizing my television
Decorating my neighbors homes
Blitzing me at every store
And corner in every city and hamlet
Between here and Buzzard Beak, Idaho.
It’s like a virus
Santa Claus is coming to town
Well I’ve been bad, very bad
And if that bastard shows up at my house
He ain’t getting cookies and milk
I’m been talking to Jesus and he tells me
That Santa is a fake, a sham, a trick on the poor people
He’s just a way to make the rich richer and poor poorer
So I ask Jesus “Why do you let this happen?”
And he smiles and tells me a long story about faith and forgotten dreams.
Then he fades back into the egg nog and I sleep with the devil.
Fitful dreams and reindeer back strap for breakfast
I eat the fake snow and regurgitate the Christmas balls
Burn the tree and bury the trimmings
The fat man can’t intimidate me.
Copyright © Stephen Kilmer | Year Posted 2013
There is no love, without our God;
Search your heart and home it’s not hard ~
I cannot stay if He’s not there,
A sense of loss would fill the air.
Fill this house with truer faith
Let, our hearts hope in Him always --
He‘ll heal spiritual beggars,
His glory abounds forever…
Search your heart and home it’s not hard ~
There is no love without our God.
Enter, for the kingdom is nigh,
Reach in and ask He’ll not deny.
There are blessings awaiting you,
Hope in Him, and He’ll see you through…
Open your heart, for it is home
Remember God is on the throne ~
When despair strikes – Give it to God,
Search your heart and home it’s not hard ~
Adell Foster©2009 Adell1
Comments: Mid Swap: Created by Jenny Buzzard from England. This is a strict structure that
repeats the first and last line as a center couplet. A syllable count of eight per line with
rhyme scheme as follows:
Copyright © Adell Foster | Year Posted 2009
I knew a time when my sister, tall and fair
with her sage sense of humor, dull and non-existent
metallic, blessed with flowing shackles, a gift, extended only to me.
Limiting my growth past 8 years, haunting my dreams until age 21
always advising her younger sis, to teary boredom
“Do as I say”, “whereso’er I may”
Lend me your shoe to prove my superiority.
By night or day,
I am your stone Buzzard and I will pick your bones
This I suffered
The rainbow might as well have been between us,
For the roses lost their petals long ago
I can no longer feel their thorns, my toughened skin
Yet lately when I turn to cry for you,
The pain is far greater than I should bear
For (you) seep, from my tear ducts, a bloodless water driblet
Injury that keeps finding its way out
Purging the likes of you
In twin tissues
Each night from my pillow writhed
Come darkened silhouettes of your pigtails
I inhale one, in each nostril,
just so I can blow you away
Are you a sister of another mister?
My tormenter, my thumb umbrella
Cleanse me from your sticky sight
Allow my legs to find that gentle breeze called freedom
Before the very bone that we share dies
Making us look upon our mirrors
To find the frozen cordial face
As we pretend to plant, a history, of fond remembrance
When we are but plowing, our indignations in the ground
I knew a time when my sister, tall and fair,
Sat braiding her curly brown hair
Finding me sleeping, without nary a sound
Wrapped her tight braid, around and around
Laughing as my life was slipped from sight
Dragging me constantly, round that night
So what if I, but a babe in skin
Was found by Dad, in the playpen
Hence, since, even now, my skin, crawls
Afraid of the hair in red overalls
Copyright © Sandra Hudson | Year Posted 2009
Some folks feel like Jesse James got a raw deal,
just because he had an affinity and liked to rob and kill.
His ended up a tragic story I reluctantly have to relate;
He trusted one of his gang and suffered a gunfighter’s fate.
Jesse was shot in the back by one of his friends Robert Ford,
giving credence to the saying about living and dying by the sword.
Mr. Ford duly received a fatal shotgun blast up in Colorado State
And likewise he also suffered a gunfighter’s fate.
Billy The Kid was a killer who lived a life of crime,
he was shot by Pat Garrett who was his friend at one time
Then Pat himself was gunned down at a later date.
So eventually he too suffered a gunfighter’s fate.
Outlaws who lived by the gun, reaped just what they sowed.
It was their choice to live and die by the gunfighter’s code.
Most of them had no desire to make any effort to go straight
So sooner or later they all suffered a gunfighter’s fate.
Even to survive was a curse, because as the killers grew older.
They spent a lot of time nervously looking back over their shoulder.
Some would even move away to escape the life they learned to hate,
But they were usually recognized and suffered a gunfighter’s fate.
So when a person chose to ride down the lawless outlaw trail
They usually ended hanging from a rope or spending their life in jail.
A lot of them made bad choices and ended up being buzzard bait,
because it was in their destiny to suffer a gunfighter’s fate.
Copyright © harold miller | Year Posted 2007
Meat in my smokehouse a bit light,
With the weather about right,
One morning at first light,
I headed to buzzard roost hollow,
A leash on Brownie’s collar,
But Brownie went crazy as a goose,
When I turn him loose,
My worse fear, I could hear,
Him chasing a deer,
Out of pope county, was clear,
Anyhow, now, down in the pope county wild woods,
Seated on an Arkansas hollow log,
With my finger on a trigger, and my eye on a hog,
I pulled that trigger, and the bullet went zip,
I jumped on that hog, with all my grip,
Though I knew I had missed,
I couldn’t resist,
Now as my grip would slip.
The hog would rip,
Tusk 8 inches long,
Like ice tongs,
Would chomp and rip,
As the battle begin to tip,
Hog getting the best of a bad situation,
Sure wish my dog hadn’t taken, his deer vacation,
At about the time,
I thought it was, the end of the line,
I heard Brownie coming,
Man, that dog was running,
He had heard the fight,
Was coming back, to claim his right,
Old Johnny Cash, in the boy named Sue,
Ain’t shown my dog and me, nothing new,
Blood guts and hair, rose up in the air,
When ole Brownie took hold, this fight ain’t fair,
Didn’t take no hour,
Untill we were back in our own lair,
We were saying a prayer, within the hour,
I was seated in a chair,
At my kitchen table,
Razorback meat, the label,
Ole Brownie, proving himself to be, very able,
To sit under my table,
For he’s my mean hooooog,
Dedication: "MoonBee Canady" An outstanding poet of light poetry, as far as I am concerned.
I certainly enjoy reading your light poetry, as well as the other types you write. You go girl,
I hope you like these poems! Godly love, Sincerely Moses
Copyright © john freeman | Year Posted 2009
Grief is a poison
Invading my soul
Trying to consume me
Like a buzzard
Pecking away at my flesh
Like a fire
Burning out of control
Grief is a poison
Encompassing my life
Gripping my heart
Slowly tearing it apart
Grief is a poison
That I must endure
It is the price I must pay
For having loved you
Death has taken you
I submit to this poison
Copyright © Christine Lucas | Year Posted 2006
I passed a squirrel
on a two-lane back road
that a car had run over
Some rule was broken...
Its front legs scratched and scraped
at the pavement but it was stuck
like glue, flat on the asphalt
Its head was bobbing
up and down, side to side
(Surely there was no pain?)
Damn it ALL, you little...
Slammed on the brakes
skidded to the side of the road
made an illegal 3 point turn
Returning to the scene of the crime,
I crushed the head of God’s creation
turning it into fresh buzzard food
turning it back home to its Creator
This creature did not have it coming
This creature did not deserve it
This creature was as good or better
than me or any other human being
God's child minded its business
God's child never hurt anyone
God's child of Nature's symphony
might have done the same for me
God's child had no clue
it was crossing a road
or even what a road was
but I did…
Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2014
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
my soul is the shape of a bloodstain
poured there by Nadine Maraschino
my right eye sits
in the ruby voodoo goblet
that she wears upon her head
Nadine was a 3-toed egg laying harpy
from the cauldron of shame
but she used her brain cleverly
with candor and anti-obfuscatory ardor
it was the mystic East
humping the mystic West
so said the gaming industry statistics
don’t believe me then
talk to my lawyers then
Circumstance & Circumstance
writs tarts and exonerations
they’ll tell you of the settlement
coded instruction to the next generation
Nadine's heart was as big as a catcher's mitt
her white garments billowed
like clouds passing before the moon
we met in an emergency room
after I pulled my best pickup line
hi I'm a friend to the entire human race
and she countered with
want auntie Nadine to show you
how to be a big boy
a buzzard shadow passed over her face
she pulled me close and hissed
if no one wants to look foolish
why so many truth murdering fools
I weakly countered with
if thoughts are differentiated
one from the other then so are you
Nadine’s lizard tongue gave him
the secret to the garden
descending down his throat
like a black lung miner
how can you tell if it's morning noon or night
hint you'll need a sense of sequence
hers was a dangerous mission
for both covert and overt ends
the life's a bitch and then you die cynics
took us for a pack of numbskulls
well we were arrayed in a tatty splendor
consisting of zero camouflage
but there was no substitute for living deep
even in Happy Valley
the slightly assisted living community
well hell we're all assisted
aren't we supposed to get smarter
as time scurries us along
and last I'd like to thank
my non-existent financial backers
for timely script development
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Copyright © Walter Alter | Year Posted 2016
chooses his medium and tools carefully:
it's oil and sable promises today
he lays it on thick
he folds then unfolds the unframed canvas many times
into the shape of a woman
squeezing out her dignity,
then reads what's left behind...
(his flavor of voodoo)
he fondles her entrails
shakes her bones
that spill into the shape of.. "a little less than yesterday"
picked over prey
he frames her
hangs her in his fun house tilted mind,
then buzzard hops away
takes to the sky
searching for another pair of wide soft eyes.
chooses his medium carefully...to fit the deed
today it's his black clay heart
that changes shape,
from a soft nest, to cold cackling cage...
the bunny takes the musky bait
he spits gasoline on the bars
runs his metal talon against a dying star
waits till her ashes cool
inhales his perfume some, puts the rest in a mason jar,
" his trophy case"
chooses his medium carefully
today its his stained glass smile....
"his heavenly mirage",
a magnet for she doves
which fly into it, heart first,
are diced with shards from a toxic rainbow,
but there is no gold at the end
only hollow caves and poisoned winds...
he dons a cape and crown of dying doves,
which have since turned from white to red.
he lounges around buffing his trophies with split tongue.
He chooses his medium carefully...
this poem is not about anyone in particular,
its just what I have often observed
Copyright © Anthony Slausen | Year Posted 2013
with barely a twitch
buzzard masters summer sky
Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2015
A pretty face that wears a smile or giggles on the phone
When sunlight glances through an open door
A robin that will sit and talk when I am on my own
Or getting lost in stories I adore
Some apple-pie and custard or a welcome cup of tea
Or just a word from one I love, to say that she loves me
A deep red rose that smells divine or sparrows having fun
An ice cold tarn high on a Lakeland fell
Outrageous rhyme by Ogden Nash and toast that's quite well done
A bakery that spreads the fresh baked smell
My Mother's home-made gingernuts, another cup of tea
A message from the girl I love that sends her love to me
A cover drive from Ali Brown that makes the bowler glare
A leg break spinning past the outside edge
A buzzard by the motorway that plunges through the air
Or walking on a tiny mountain ledge
Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and maybe another tea
While hearing from the one I love that she's in love with me
A snowflake in the winter and autumnal golden leaves
A crocus that says Spring is on the way
The beach when all the ladies have been met by clothing thieves
Or flying kites on any windy day
Some chocolate cake, a nice big slice, then wash it down with tea
Another for the one I love who says that she loves me
I smile for all these little things I smile for so much more
For happiness is all we really need
I count up everything I love and marvel at the score
Is garnering such blessings really greed?
A bag of jelly bellies and a nice hot cup of tea
A dream about the girl I love, and when she dreams of me!
Copyright © Jeff Green | Year Posted 2009
a lone buzzard flies
stark contrast to blue bell skies..
winter's north breeze lifts
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2013
"The Children's Hour," Franklin D. called it,
putting his stamp on that ceremony, and, so,
we come together, bird, and beast: a yappy
little Bichon Frise in the parking lot, who believes
he's a Rotweiler. And, then there's the poet,
that strange species you are advised to avoid
lest what's worse, get written up in verse.
It's five p.m., and the great-winged birds (read
Turkey Buzzards) are circling over the lake
as if they know it's time for drowning sins.
I've been absolved of mine, the priest was kind,
still, residual remorse remains for those washed-
out black buzzard-stains, whose namesakes
leave no signs of circling, no trace in the sky,
unlike the plane shot like a ball from a cannon
that is climbing straight up over the snowy
rope beneath it. Then, out of the blue,
another -- the two aerial acrobats
forming a giant X like the cross that
St. Andrew hung on, but it's an epiphany,
not a crucifixion we celebrate as we clink
our glasses,wondering, where go these
hardy climbers, these sky divers? To what
destination, what new creation from their
ropes of light? Where they go, I do not know.
Where, in the offing, trails dissolving,
never the twain shall meet...
I, Thee greet,
Copyright © Nola Perez | Year Posted 2015
Walking across a prairie brown,
My eyes a glanced up high,
Where creamy clouds, as white as shrouds,
Were gently passing by.
A buzzard all so hungry flew,
Swiftly across the plain;
Down below a mouse came out,
to watch with cheeky disdain.
Our big bird now up in the sky, was getting hunger pain;
The poor grass gone dry, with a thirsty cry;
were hoping for some rain.
A swift coyote sped past fast;
Hopeful of devouring a fine repast:
For after all where the raptor flies,
Can be always heard some dying cries.
This earth so parched arid and torn,
First she’ll see a cactus born,
Although so ugly, so much thorn;
He’s a prickly sight in the early morn.
Tis hard to believe, traversing across this vast expanse:
I’m – actually – watching – the thistle – dance.
(painter & poet)
Copyright © Prince Freakasso | Year Posted 2009
A goldfish has a memory of about three seconds
Very much like senior citizens I'd say
They're often seen aimlessly walking the streets
Wearing their dear wife's negligee
A sneeze has been recorded at travelling over
One hundred forty feet per second
Fast enough to knock a buzzard off a poop wagon
An amazing feat without question
During an average person's lifetime, one will eat
About sixty thousand pounds of food
That's the weight of about six full grown elephants
Embarrassing to be seen in the nude
In Tokyo, I'm told they sell toupees for your dog
Come on, that's just downright bizarre
Way back, “pants” was considered a bad word
That's one of the strangest facts by far
Only one person in two billion will live to be
One hundred and sixteen or older
Wonder if these geezers are still sexually active
Does the fire of passion still smoulder
The longest flight of a rooster ever recorded
Was about thirteen seconds they say
Chasing all the pretty hens around the barnyard
Clucking, “ride 'em cowboy, olé!”
Did you know Ramses Condoms were named
After the pharaoh Ramses the Second
This gentleman surely didn't use any such protection
For fathering 160, he's a legend
If you ever find yourself in a crocodile's jaws
Push your thumbs into its eyeballs
The croc will scream and immediately let go
Then run away before you get mauled
© Jack Ellison 2013
Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2013
As the fog materializes
Some birds sing songs of love
The Mockingbird sits fluffed quiet
Coo, Coo floats from the Dove
One lone buzzard soars in the fog
Dampness coats plants and trees
Waterdroplets form, hang; waiting,
Water the earth for free
Tiny buds and leaves appear
They long to display gems
Soon all will open wide those buds
Atop those strong green stems
Soon butterflies will appear
and gently stroke each bloom
Their gentle wings circulate air
Arrive in Europe soon
What kind of weather will those strokes
create?_Mild or severe
Will they bring gentle breezes there
And sweet air perfumed
If a butterfly gently strokes its wings
in America, the molecules it stirs can
profoundly effect the weather in
Europe!!That is a fact..It is called
the butterfly effect..
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2014
i treated your loss just like death
grieving for you as i did my mother
i still wonder if the universe
wasn't teaching me a lesson in karma
for you were a personification of heaven
which surely meant there would be hell to pay
for a year i tried to drown you out
with illegal drugs and spirits
something to wipe away the memories
numb the gut wrenching pain
and to quiet the nightmares
that made me fearful of sleep
you still remain
after my previous endeavors failed
i sought out pleasurable company
calling on old acquiantances
and admirers of our once shared love
dull, boring, lacking in every sense
and that is putting it mildly
then that lonely august afternoon
an unexpected surprise
chiming from within my apartment
your tender voice on the other end
everything rushing back
my soul revitalized
your freshman year in your rearview
returning home to gather creature comforts
inviting me for a ride along to arizona
after all others had declined
i hesitated thinking it a bad idea
but knew the courage it must've took to ask
hey danny, do you remember
sleeping in the cab of your truck
at that shady looking truck stop
just over the new mexico state line
you nestled up in my arms sleeping
just like old times
i remember climbing with you
through the catalina shadows
chasing roses instead of lilacs
jumping over chasms
eating prickly pears
and showering in the springs
three days i spent in your bliss again
while three days you sharpened your dagger
waking up to the sight of ian
hovering over me, smiling
like a buzzard mocking its pray
unaware i'd been mislead
our time together cut short by my request
unable to bear the thought of you having moved on
standing alone at the terminal side-by-side
your hand reached over to cup mine
turning i could see the tears welling up in your eyes
your voice cracking now with apologies
one final embrace
your face buried into my chest as you sobbed
your eyes opening shedding tears
one final kiss
feeling just like the first
under the fall
a decade has gone by
i've sworn off love in hopes
someday you'll return to reclaim what's yours
now and forevermore
even after all we've been through
you still remain
~ fin ~
Copyright © Malkavian Raven | Year Posted 2014
They dip into ur mess
2 add 2 the stress
The ones that they caused
Because of their flaws
They're afraid 2 admit
Because they know the natural hit
The hit that'll bring the truth
That'll restore their youth!
Copyright © Stephen Gentles | Year Posted 2008
tears continually stream well like eyes
her mascara darkens, complementing her misery
voluptuous legs apprehensively taping earth perpetually
Though she holds whole any eye knew her soul had been shattered
buzzard like males deceitfully grin of her vulnerability
they’ve spotted beauty beneath her hurt
whispering in the depths of which shall have the opportunity at such potential
the well groomed buzzard with nice wings soars toward with an supercilious swagger
he sings a sorrowful song with a several notes of deception
her aura meets the color range of her mascara as she screams till he fly’s away
I smirk looking at his defeated flock with a grin that said “vulnerable my ass”
Copyright © james faulkner | Year Posted 2009
Lightly down the hill –
The ancient track, the Hollow Way.
Searching for a kill:
He must locate a meal today.
Our eyes meet.
His, like two dark pools,
Impenetrable, golden rimmed.
At least a metre
Tip to tip; majestic power.
Seems so effortless –
Master of conserved energy.
Buzzard to vehicle
Approaching thirty miles per hour !
Urgent action now required.
With two flaps
Of those giant wings
He's climbing steeply overhead,
Alights on a branch
Watches my progress with disdain.
My experience :
Close encounter of the bird kind !
Copyright © Mike Jones | Year Posted 2015
And golden ears of corn stretched to listen, to the suns
warming ray of words, as stems swayed and rattled. In
the next field yellow Sunflowers genuflected, lifted
their heads to their heavenly maker, turning not to lose
his eye. And the sun beat of an egg blue sky, a blanket
of life for all to nestle. Only song rained, spilling from
the throats of lofty Skylarks sharing their delight on this
miracle of days. Hawthorne, Bramble and Blackberry
wrestled creating a thorn haven for Blackbird and Thrush
as they cared for the young ever gaping mouths. Bumble
bees and Hover flies darted flower heads, intoxicated on
the abundance of rich pollen, the flower kissed and life is
granted. The fruits ripen, Field mice nibble the sweet corn's
tender pods, and the Buzzard glides softly with searching
eye. This day takes place with no rush or haste, no agenda
to adhere to, just to amble at natures pace. And on I walk
Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010
Now, ol’ Twister Tom he was quite a cowboy find—
A real rock hard cowpoke, though the question begged—
Some say that he was a legend in his own mind,
He’d a been six foot six if he weren’t so bow-legged!
But standin’ five foot two he was a dryin’ breed,
So he took up wordin’ and became a poet!
At eighty-two years all the big world he had seed,
So he was a master bard before he knowed it!
So Tom the bronc twister he done went on a tour
And he read his poems at cowboy gatherin’s—
They liked his gravel voice and his odd looks for sure
And they loved all his colorful palatherin’s!
But there got to be so many versifiers,
That it started to seem lots of folks didn’t care—
So they all turned into cowboy verse deniers—
It was so dern crowded that nobody went there!
Tom joined the ranks of Barker, Kiskaddon and Clark,
Chapman, Morant, Fletcher and his great Knibbs—
“It shore beats singin’ ta all them cows in the dark,
And I don’t like wearin’ those overalls with bibs!”
And rarely in recitin’ did Tom make a flub,
But there was a lot he lacked in propriety—
They said he was so dern good he should join a club,
Like the famed Dead Cowboy Poet’s Society!
But with Twister Tom that just didn’t set too right—
Said, “I don’t want ta be in no society,
What takes in any ol’ buzzard just on his sight
And would accept as a member that likes of me!”
But they swore that he’d be a perfect candidate,
Yet he then said, “It seems there’s somethin’ you ferget—
Before I is one of you cowboy poet’s, mate—
They’s just one thang you overlooked – I ain’t dead yet!”
So ol’ Twister Tom he kept makin’ him a name,
He read his verse smooth and with no anxiety—
And when he was dead wound up in the hall of fame
And in the Dead Cowboy Poet’s Society!
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2007