Best Cowpokes Poems
He pulled up to the Triple "T" Ranch in a shiny Cadillac.
In his trailer was an Arabian steed with the finest tack.
He wore Tony Lama alligator boots and Calvin Klein jeans,
And a stylish Stetson hat - he looked like a man of means!
He strode to the corral where grizzled cowpokes lazed.
They chortled at the greenhorn, each of them amazed!
"Where's the boss?" he asked, "I'm seeking a position!"
"Over yonder" said they. (The boss eyed him with great suspicion!)
The boss sauntered over to see what the hullabaloo was all about.
"I'll handle this! You fellers git back to work!" he said with a shout!
He sized up the lad saying, "Son, I ain't impressed with them fancy labels!
But you're hired! Here's a shovel! Ya kin start by muckin' out them stables!"
Entry for Carolyn Devonshire's "Green Humor Rhymes" Contest
Barbed wire seems a 'thorny' subject on which to opine,
But there arose a need for such for people and beasts to confine!
Cowpokes cussed as they worked with it mutilating their hands.
Sheepherders fussed with cattlemen as it spread across their lands!
'Tis said back in 1874 Joseph Glidden, who 'bristled' with the idea,
Was awarded a patent for barbed wire to provide a cure-all panacea!
Split-rail fencing to outline boundaries was rapidly becoming passe',
To keep neighbors' straying goats, horses and other critters at bay!
Sheriffs found barbed wire handy to enforce a judge's firm dictates,
To confine hoss thieves, cattle rustlers and other such reprobates!
Inmates trying to scamper through the wire were apt to rip their pants,
Or worse, might end up in 'boot hill', caught trying to scale the fence!
Alas, sinister uses for barbed wire were found beyond bucolic meadowlands.
'Twas used to enslave thousands of innocent souls behind its menacing strands.
Thousands of men, women and children were consigned to death at Dachau,
Triblinka, Buchenwald, Ravensbruck and Auschwitz-Birkenau.
Among its many other diverse uses it has even marched off to wars,
To protect gallant American soldiers on far too many alien shores.
Mister Joseph Glidden was doing mankind a great favor, he thought.
Were he alive today he might say, "My gawd, what hath I wrought!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
"Rise an' shine you lazy cowpokes! Time to saddle up yer hoss!
Time to move them moo-cows to summer range!" yelled th' trail boss!
"You've lolled around here all winter, now it's time to earn yer pay!
Jump in yer jeans, pull on them boots an' let's git 'er underway!"
All winter long they'd grown fat in th' bunkhouse eatin' Cooky's fare,
But knowin' that on that long, dusty trail, grub could be mighty spare!
How they'd long fer good ol' gut-fillin' grub as they wuz mendin' fences,
An' roundin' up them wily dogies roamin' over God's vast expanses!
Come supper time th' cowpunchers would lounge about a blazin' far,
Smokin' roll-yer-owns, chewin' th' fat an' nursin' cuts frum bobbed war!
Thankin' th' Lord fer their grub, Cooky yelled, "Come an' git 'er fellers!
Ain't much, but me an' my ol' Dutch oven done purty good!" he bellers!
Th' menu never varied but they knew better'n to complain about his cuisine,
Er Cooky could be as grumpy as a rattlesnake er a disgruntled wolverine!
Ever' supper consisted uv th' same ol' thing - a classic case uv deja vu:
Beans, spuds, bacon, sour dough biscuits an' a dollop uv mystery stew!
Frum across th' valley a harmonica's melancholy tune wuz heard,
As th' night guard kept a wary vigil an' soothed th' restless herd.
Th' cowpokes dreamt uv a hearty breakfast but they already knew,
It'd be beans, spuds, bacon, sour dough biscuits an' a dollop uv mystery stew!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Me and my fellow buckaroos have had a real rough day.
Plumb tuckered out, we still are not ready to hit the hay.
Our bacon, the beans and biscuits have all been gobbled up.
My coffee now is growing cold inside my old tin cup.
Sitting around the fire, it feels good to just lean back.
A harmonica my friend is taking now from his "war sack."
melancholy is his tune. Two cowpokes who have guitars
are joining in with my friend Jake. I look up at the stars.
I want to liven up the scene, so I sing them my new song -
the one I wrote a month ago. The others sing along.
I love this life and being on this current cattle drive.
Not married yet, I'm saving up. At least I can survive!
It's time to get our sleep in. My bedroll's spread out. By and by,
I'll be deaming about my gal Sal beneath this starry sky!
Jan. 27, 2021
Jan. 27, 2021 for Line Gautheir's 'Cowboy Poetry' Poetry Contest
Cowboyin' seems so romantical as seen in th' pitcher shows.
Ain't a lick uv truth in that as ever' workin' cowpoke knows.
Movie stars is paid big bucks with a fancy saddle fer thar horse,
An' always ride off into th' sunset with a purty gal, uv course!
Real cowpokes don't wear designer jeans er fancy rhinestone suits.
You can tell a real buckaroo by th' looks uv his scruffy boots!
He's rousted out uv his bunk at th' break uv day;
(Seems it wuz jes' an hour er so ago, since he'd hit th' hay!)
He ain't got no time to strum a git'tar an' croon to a purty gal.
You'll usually find him ropin' an' a-sweatin' in a hot corral.
More'n likely them big stars lunch on caviar at th' country club,
While a cowpuncher eats beans an' bacon fer his daily grub!
In them western movies, handsome dudes ride tall in th' saddle.
A cowpoke has bowlegs frum years ridin' his cayuse astraddle.
Stunt men are handy to take th' falls fer fragile movie stars,
But a cowboy has to rough it an' can prove it by his scars!
When day is done th' movie cowboy goes home to his plush chalet.
A workin' cowboy goes to his humble bunkhouse at th' end uv day.
Cowpokes wonder why they cowboy - it shore ain't fer th' pay,
But they'll keep on a-ropin' and a-ridin' til they're old an' gray!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Oh, give me a home where majestic buffalo roam,
Where antelope graze and rushing streams foam!
A place where snow-capped mountains reach for the sky,
And gentle winds waft through blue spruce with soothing sigh!
Oh, give me a home where golden eagles soar on high;
Where skeins of geese delight my senses with their clarion cry!
A home where splendid sunrises greet me each morn,
And spectacular sunsets, The Master Artist, the sky doth adorn!
Oh, give me a home where verdant fields thrive with golden grain;
Where cowpokes herd cantankerous cattle on wide-open plain!
A place where magnificent mountain goats and sheep can be viewed,
On steep and rocky tors, content with their own, seeking solitude!
Oh, give me a home where in autumn, elk vent their plaintive blare,
Seeking to charm the feminine species to provide himself an heir!
Where glorious Columbine blossoms grow in profusion,
And golden leaves of aspen create a fairy-land-like illusion!
Unlike the hapless and adventurous Conquistador,
I've found that home and so very much more!
I've found my beautiful Eldorado,
Right here in Colorful Colorado!
The marshal saddled up as dawn broke over old Dodge City.
Upon town rabble and mean hombres he took no pity!
He donned his ten-gallon hat and strapped on his gun.
On his vest the marshals' badge gleamed in the rising sun!
Sheepskin chaps and fancy boots completed his dandy outfit.
He was a handsome dude - with the ladies he made quite a hit!
He mounted his horse Woody and took a ride about the town,
Ever on the lookout for desperados of notorious renown!
He took a break for a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs,
Then continued on his rounds on the lookout for society's dregs.
Rowdy cowpokes galloped down Main Street on a toot.
Marshal Dan escorted them out of town in hot pursuit!
At high noon the peace of Dodge City was interrupted,
When a brawl at the Long Branch Saloon suddenly erupted!
Shooting began and Marshal Dan drew his peace-maker;
Two rowdy gun-slingers had a date with the undertaker!
With Marshal Dan, peace in Dodge City was guaranteed.
Danny dismounted his rocking horse Woody, his faithful steed.
It had been a tough day trying to be fair and impartial.
Now it was afternoon nap time for the little five-year old marshal!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
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
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)
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
He billed himself as an expert in the field of "equine podiatry",
Better known as a farrier for farmers and the cream of society!
Keeping horses shod and their hooves polished was his vocation.
With horseflesh he'd had many an interesting confrontation!
He always had a roll-yer-own dangling from his lips,
And a blackened leather apron wrapped about his hips.
His jaw was set and with biceps wrought of tempered steel,
He'd strike the anvil with his hammer - what a rhythmic peal!
In his jumbled shop he'd shod animals of many breeds.
Donkeys, mules, ponies and prized Arabian steeds.
He shoed critters pulling covered wagons to unknown frontiers,
And many a cowpokes cayuse for the round-up of his steers!
One detail they didn't cover when he was in farrier school,
Was how to deal with the occasional cantankerous mule.
Many times he'd found himself sprawled upon the dirt,
With the outline of a hoof imprinted upon his shirt!
Tho' his profession never guaranteed a life of glamour,
And knowing he'd not get rich wielding a tongs and hammer,
Yet, it was challenging working with ornery mule and horse,
Always hoisting their hindquarters very gingerly of course!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Our two funny limmerists are at it again
Clucking about like two mother hens
Jack's chemise is just wrong
Can't look at John's thong
Hey ya two cowpokes, when's this all going to end
I think that I shall never see
A cowboy that eats toe-foo—
Sech a dern thang jest could not be
In this ol’ bunkhouse crew!
Real men eats beef an’ pork an’ beans—
And all thangs within their reach—
Us real cowpokes drink coffee black—
Turn noses up at quiche!
Veggies should stay in ranch gardens—
These lips will taste no yogurt!
Good stew and biscuits make amends—
Seaweed makes bellies hurt!
Give us jerky or give us death—
Give us beans till we’re all blue—
But with all your strength and your breath—
Don’ serve us no toe-foo!
Cookie, fire-up yer chuck wagon 'cause th' round-up is begun!
Us cowpokes is gonna cull th' herd frum dawn to th' settin' sun!
We is gonna supply you wid th' cookin's fer our chuck tonight;
Heaps uv good ol' Rocky Mountain oysters broiled fer our delight!
It'll be a hot an' dusty trail as we drive 'em frum th' chaparral,
An' herd them cantankerous kine fer brandin' in th' ol' corral!
It'll take a heap uv sweat an' a lot uv cussin' to git 'em movin', alright,
But it'll be worth it, 'cause we is feedin' on Rocky Mountain oysters tonight!
Usin' our cuttin' hosses we'll rope an' wrestle th' bulls to th' ground.
There we'll brand an' neuter 'em as they beller an' kick around!
We'll be bruised an' kicked fer little pay but that'll be alright,
'Cause we is gonna enjoy a feast uv Rocky Mountain oysters tonight!
Us cowboys works hard wid little pay rollin' 'round in th' manure,
Convertin' bulls into steers; that's more'n them city fellers could endure!
But that's okay, 'cause at round-up time we gits a special treat;
Tonight we is gonna enjoy a feast uv Rocky Mountain oysters to eat!
Deep in the Badlands, are canyons that claim
many a man, who rides without name
He's hiding or runnin', from somethun' he's done
Outcast, or outlaw....without any fame
but keeping a lookout for someone to come
A hawk circles low, on a brown afternoon,
like a curious vagrant, in the land of the sun.
On the trail in the Badlands, while the afternoon sighs,
are two saddled horses, two men, and their packs.
Cowpokes done riding, with the sun at their backs.
with pall of white clouds driftin' over their heads,
from a rift in the cottonwoods, that frame the canyon's ledge
The riders have paused, under gunmetal skies,
searching the canyon, for a place to bed down
to un-halter their horses, before the stars fill the night
To stare at a fire, with meager a bite
and a place to find shelter, and rest up for the fight
They will drink in illusion, as the horses refresh,
as they prance through deep waters, on the next summer's day
They are thirsty for rest, wipe the sweat off their brows
Will be back by the sunrise.....when they're back on the trail
Keeping a watch, from the canyon below,
But moving along, as the tumbleweeds roll
.
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Cowboys In The Badlands Contest: Sponsored By Isaiah Zerbst
9/20/14