Best Dern Poems
Why is sweetness a target for the buggiest frights?
Sweets do attract the sweet but
honey can come with a sting.
You see, the dern ants are in the honey jar
so I had to throw out the thing!
Why is it you can’t have anything sweet without ants?
You know, I’ve never seen a nose on an ant, have you?
The sweet ones don’t run around with signs on there backs.
Do they?
Seems the buggy ones always win
or foul the honey.
Why is sweetness a target for the buggiest frights?
Children should be able to eat sweets from anyone.
But, they can’t. There’s always a nut job somewhere.
Perhaps, sweet things should evolve a sting?
You get in the honey jar and you say die of diabetes?
Unless, the sweet thing gives you the auntie dote.
Sweets do attract sweet but
at least the honey bee HAS a sting!
Things would stay sweet a lot longer without coocoonuts!
Becarefull NOT to let ants in the honey jar,
or..you’ll have to throw it ALL out!
Come Dance
"Come dance with me", she said and smiled
And he fell off his chair.
He blushed and rose and all the while
He couldn't help but stare.
Prettiest thing he'd ever saw
Was askin' him to dance.
If he could only work his jaw,
He'd dern shore take a chance.
He led her 'round the floor with ease,
And fell in love right there.
She still recalls a gentle breeze,
But not a breath of air.
He gave up drinkin', runnin' 'round,
She filled up her hope chest.
He wouldn't lose what he had found,
She felt that she was blessed.
They bought a place just west of town
And filled it full of cows.
That ranch has never let them down,
They never broke their vows.
Now fifty years have come and passed,
They raised a crop of boys.
The grandkids all are girls at last,
They make a lot less noise.
He rocks upon the porch awhile,
Her voice comes from within.
He knows she says it with a smile,
"Come dance with me again."
Although there be some debatin’
‘Bout if ol’ cowboys wear socks—
I can tell you fer a dern fact,
That true cowboys don’t wear Crocs.
They just don’t fit a stirrup right,
And bright colors scare the stock—
I’ll sure nuff shoot the first cowboy
I see wearin’ a new Croc!
Oh, we talk of Old West legends
Like our Jesses’ and Hickoks—
But I hope I never do see
Cowboys herdin’ in their Crocs!
And when that great cattle Master
Lays me low beneath the rocks—
Just make sure I’m wearin’ my boots
And not a pair of them Crocs!
Ben raised up a dern disappointment, Daddy, well, he wanted a boy.
Wasn’t nothing under the bleeding red sun Ma could do but keep on a tryin’
Ya’siree, she was one branded filly and dern iffin that filly didn’t birth a maverick.
Daddy, well he had him some hard times a com’n
and he didn’t ev’n try to hide his fallen face when Sis was born.
that un, well, she was maverick number two!
Daddy was the devil may care sort and him and his seed strayed far afield,
sowing his wild oats, praying for an heir, he himself was one
‘slick hairy dick’ so to speak [that’s cowboy lingo for a maverick himself]
and you know what they say, “The cow plop don’t fall far from its ****”
He kept on pokin’ Ma ‘till he got that boy, all nine caterwauling pounds!
Dynasty founded, one hell of a shindig was thrown, as luck would have it,
Dad strayed, but not before he taught his gal’s not to take guff from any man!
Out on the range, Dad rounded up a couple more Betty’s
“Yehaw, did that brand sizzle” got his self a couple more bucko’s
for the dynasty and another sweet filly, all of them mavericks to the core.
Funny thing is old Dad’s gal’s got more balls then most men.
So, I guess in the end [wink] he taught us well!
*This is a Cowboy Poem, it is a maverick to it's form because
Cowboy poetry is rhymed, metered verse written by someone who has lived a significant portion of his or her life in Western North American cattle culture. The verse reflects an intimate knowledge of that way of life, and the community.
[Never lived in the West, don't like anything that looks at me with one eye!
"...names have been changed to protect the innocent."
P.S. I'm the maverick!
Mary, Mary
Mary, Mary, where yall be
Behind the shed I see
Sitting on a bucket
Two shakes and blow
Snakes eyes rolls
Mary, Mary, where yall be
Gosh darn, dang it
Wrestling with Billy
over a piece of watermelon
One lick to the eye
cheek swell , black eye
Mary, Mary, where yall be
I havn’t got a lick of work out of yall
dern tootin, when I gits yall ,
Yall find yourself in a heap of trouble
Yall britches won’t have
a Sears and Roebuck book
© Eve Roper 4/21/2015
This redneck is fixin' to go dancin'
You reckon we get gussied up and go?
I'll be a high flutin' and a prancin'
Is the honky-tonk puttin' on a show?
Shall I wear my fanciest clod hoppers?
Shall I phone all your fiddle playin' kin?
I am gonna be such a show stopper.
We shall enter the dance contest and win.
I've got a hankerin' for hot romance,
And some granny-slappin' hillbilly sex.
Bear ten younguns, live in 'ternity pants
Did you just skedaddle, my newest ex?
Dern it, Darlin', thought we were so well matched.
I counted my chickens before they hatched!
Written 3/2/2017
Entered in Mid December Premiere
Hosted by Brian Strand
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!
He's the last of the suburban cowboys
At the end of the cul-de-sac.
Oh, he may still have that Western Channel
To bring his memories right back--
But those days of Roy Rogers and Trigger,
They're now just fading to black--
He's riding alone in his condo home
And that's the gall dern sad fact.
He ate those sweet Sugar Pops with ol' Jingles--
Watched all those westerns on TV--
Drank down all that cold milk for Hopalong--
Wore cowboy hats and boots with glee.
He had him a fine Rifleman's rifle,
Gene Autry's new cap guns for kids to see--
But he sure did hate all that real estate
That kept him from being free.
He may be the last suburban cowboy
'Cause kids now do the video game--
But in his mind he's still young Rex Allen
Riding over that painted plain.
But he likes to think the guys in white hats
Have not all gone down in a flame--
'Cause deep in his heart there still is a part
That seeks out the cowboy's name.
T hey’d aughta not called nookie
H eaven’s blessed cookie...
E ither burd or bee, cause neither's a lookie!
B urds well der feathered, not like me?
I n da interest of clarity, I’m certainly NO bee?
R obins do have red breasts and I have two, see?
D ern, maybe dat's why dey calls dem da burds and da bees?
S o, if da ladies da burd, da guy must be da bee?
A nyway, why didn’t dey call IT da cows and da doves?
N ow, cows at least got legs and doves are for luv!
D rat, I still don’t get da bee stingy thingie, "Gov?"
T he bees has a sting YIKE and bees sure love honey.
H ell, maybe they thought a man'd sting ya for money?
E ither dat or “Hmmm,” some ladies are real punny?
B et we women smell real sweet, I guess, and da bees fly to honey?
E eeeeeekkk, I so confuddled, I feel like Mikey Rooney?
E ach dern metaphors is making me more looney tooney!
S imply forget da dern foolishness and give me a groomie!
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!
When strollin' by the ol' saloon,
on chairs they kept outside,
I spied a dried up, lonsome sort
folks walked by, but eyed.
He had a faithful doggie
with head laid on his knee.
The ol' man stroked him softly,
kind, devotedly.
I stopped an' took a seat nearby,
then shared a cut of chaw.
I thought his story might be good-
he reminded me of Pa.
I asked just where he hailed from,
he didn't bat an' eye-
looked off in space, took one deep breath,
prob'ly thinkin' up a lie.
Come from ever'where, Son,
been places you ain't dreamed.
I settled back to listen.
He relaxed a bit it seemed.
An Indian fighter, I once was,
rode with the Cavalry.
Met ol' Yeller Hair himself
in eighteen, sixty-three.
Was wagon master for some folks
seekin' land to claim,
leavin' homes an' fam'lies east-
thought the West they'd tame.
Had a wife I sure 'nough loved,
two daughters an' a son,
the cholera took 'em all one year,
my driftin' then begun.
Did some drovin' 'hind the herds,
eatin' miles a dust,
catchin' strays, an' keepin' watch
for rustlers we could bust.
Owned a ranch in Texas
but never got no rain,
the drought, it lasted six years,
no reason to remain.
I killed a man in Denver,
the bugger had it comin',
he kicked my dog, stole my horse,
broke the guitar I was strummin'.
Cut trees out in Wyomin',
lumber-jacked a bit.
Camp bully always threatnin',
my throat he'd like to slit.
I rode the rails a piece back then,
an' dern near froze my tail,
sittin' in them boxcars
thru' rain, an' wind, an' hail.
Now, I'm nigh on eighty,
an' comin' to my end.
I thank ya Son for listenin' ,
ya seem 'most like a friend.
I reckon that I've lived some,
an' ain't sure now I'm done,
I just take one day at a time
'cause life ain't easy, Son.
It seems the Old West and America
Are two of the many things we must save—
All these changes are coming much too fast—
Big John Wayne must be turning in his grave.
They’ve done and made cowboys an evil thing;
Seems like there aren’t no heroes anymore—
TV westerns and movies are now rare—
There aren’t any causes left to die for.
Oh, but we are politically correct
And limp-wristed we brag on how we’re green—
But green’s just another dern word for red—
It all takes our freedom and is obscene.
Yes, when did our country take the wrong path?
Where’s truth, justice, the American way?
It seems our leaders are a bunch of fools
And they never listen to what we say!
It’s time to take back the land that we love
And live by our Lord’s and the cowboy’s code—
Praise God and pass the ammunition son—
We’ll ride to reclaim the country we’re owned!
Oh, why has the land we love gone astray?
And why aren’t we now the home of the brave?
And why have we let it all slip away,
While big John Wayne spins wildly in his grave?
I’m just a used-to-be cowboy
With one boot in the ol’ cow pie—
I used to be quite the young gent;
Now I just wait around to die.
Oh, you know you’re getting’ dern old
When your knees creak like your saddle—
And your skin feels just like leather
And you smell like them ol’ cattle.
Then you cain’t ‘member like you used
And your mustache is all nose hair—
While your head’s smooth as river rock
When it used to be long and fair.
Then your ol’ sex drive done rode off
And left a droop that sure is cruel—
It’s where your butt done used to be
And where you used to keep your jewels!
I reckon growin’ ol’s no joke:
There’s nothin’ in it to rejoice—
And though your parts do stop workin’—
It’s better than the other choice!
Not all them ol’ time cowpokes
Wore them tight blue jeans, of course—
Most wore hot ol’ striped dress pants
Of thick cotton that was coarse.
It was Levi that came ‘round
To cover up our backside—
So we didn’t bust britches
When we went to take a ride.
Now they still got stove pipe legs
And jeans that is loose fittin’—
Even them short baggy drawers
That brings a poke to spittin’!
And we got them in colors—
Some that is downright dern crass—
But they all done do their job,
Hidin’ rears of lad and lass.
And though it seems that cowboys
Are now seldom in the norm—
You can bet your jean bottom
They wear that cowboy uniform!
And if I do go senile
And I’m clearly in decline—
Don’t bury me in dress pants—
I want jeans on my ol’ behind!
There’s a long tradition of cowboys and their pals,
Watchin’ buckin’ broncos settin’ on wood corrals.
It’s something they enjoys and sure ‘nuff don’t avoids—
But, dern that wood is hard on their ol’ hemorrhoids!
Feels like they’s sittin’ on a brandin’ iron that’s hot—
It’s an awful feelin’ that ain’t too soon forgot.
And ridin’ saddles ain’t much better I allows—
But leastways there’s more paddin’ than them wood corrals!