Best Rustlers Poems
As Mayor Tom often says when he's off on one of his escapades...
"Greetings" this time from Milton Creek! It seems like decades
since we've shared the latest news about what's been goin' on.
The law is still being abided here. For that, we thank Judge Horne.
Sheriff Mark is still away on a secretive meeting about a commission.
Guess, it's not so secretive since I just mentioned it in my admission.
The town is safe in the capable hands of Daniel Rodgers for a while,
and deputies Terry, Duke and Mike are always lookin' out for the vile.
It's been mighty tranquil here in Milton Creek and surrounding towns
since the hombres and rustlers are gone, there are no worried frowns.
The law here never lets down its guard against the evil doers of crime,
so, we're enjoying the pleasant atmosphere; a long-awaited peacetime.
Telegraph agent, Jerry sent word that soon we'll be hosting a rodeo.
It promises to be an exciting event for everyone... a big western show.
There's a list of events, and I hope each category will fill with names...
Calf ropin' and barrel racin' will take place with lots of other games.
I've noticed Jan and Tania have both signed up for a few of the events,
Ranger David will ride broncs and bulls, so will several other residents.
Deb said she would, too, although it's a decision she might regret.
Constance will be checking out the animals since she's our new vet.
There's still two months before the first rodeo opens in the Creek.
I'm adding a new wing of rooms to Aces Hotel; a few will be a bit chic.
We're hopin' to draw in nice folk who might settle down from afar
and bring in revenue for the Manx when they belly up to the bar!
Anne-Lise will perform trick riding to begin the rodeo celebration.
It'll be a week-long event, so we're extending this as an invitation...
Come to Milton Creek for drinks and eats... steaks and whoopie pies!
and bring your competitive spirit if you're aimin' to win a rodeo prize.
Preacher Paul Nederlof will be here to pray that everyone stays safe.
Cowboys and cowgirls, strap on your chaps so your legs don't chafe.
Guns will be collected by deputies when newbies ride into Milton Creek
cuz we don't take kindly to black hat gangs. It's peace here that we seek.
The unsung heroes of the open plains
The outlaw bandits like Jesse James
Cut throat thieves and black jack hustlers
Green horn Cowboys and long horn rustlers
They all stood the Cowboys test
A stetsons man a broncos best
Leather chaps and leather vest
A real man's man a cut above the rest
Blazing saddles and blazing guns
Long trail ride and mountain runs
Chuck wagon chilly and camp fire sites
Hot sweaty days and long cold nights
A Cowboy sits on his faithful steed
Quick draw fingers based on speed
Bandanna mask and whiskey flask
A Cowboys job is'nt an easy task
Tabacco chew and cow beef stew
a Cowboys gang and Cowboys crew
They did work from dusk to dawn
round 'em up and brand 'em all day long
Gee!!! and haw!!! right and left
Yee and haw out of breath
Cowboy slang and Cowboy lingo
even Mexican Cowboys that say Gringo
Greetings y'all and howdy stranger
long lost wranglers and lone rangers
Ruff and rugged with no frills
Ask questions later shoot to kill
Yellow belly buckaroos and snake oil peddlers
wanted dead or alive outlaws and frontier settlers
From the California gold rush of 48
to the 13 colonies of this great state
Cowboys lived and Cowboys died!!!!
Cowboys give for Cowboys pride!!!
(To the tune of Silver Bells)
Wooden sidewalks, and the shop fronts,
Dressed in wild western style
In the jail there’s a feeling of Christmas
Cattle mooing, cowboys shooting
Riding mile after mile
And down at the Long Branch you hear
Silver spurs, silver spurs
It’s Christmas time in Dodge City
Jing-a-ling, saloon girls sing
Soon it will be Christmas day.
Mobs in street fights try to stay polite
While they bleed red and scream
As the towns folk rush home
To take cover
Hear the jaws crunch
See the kids bunch
It’s Matt Dillon’s big scene
As he catches the rustlers you’ll hear
Silver spurs, silver spurs
It’s Christmas time in Dodge City
Jing-a-ling, saloon girls sing
Soon it will be Christmas day.
Silver spurs, silver spurs
Soon it will be Christmas day.
Soon it will be Christmas day.
When we travel in the car we sing to the radio. The other night, Silver Bells came on and I sang Dodge City to make my wife laugh.
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
Lord what I'd give to go back in time.
Meet historical legends Wyatt Earp,
Or Jessie James, let them leap off
The written page, and live again.
Rough riders, shooting the colt 45,
Learning swiftness by the draw.
Badges brethren, gather up,
The madman’s posse,
Gun powders equalizers,
In there bloody hands.
Wanted men, flee to,
Parts unknown,
Horse thieves, and
Cattle rustlers,
Trying to evade the long,
Arm of the law.
Fate decides whom lives,
And dies.
It makes no difference,
Innocent or guilty.
After all it is life’s truest rule,
An eye for an eye, blood shed,
To give the devil his vengeance,
Behold survival of fittest,
Heavens gates, are made from,
Twisted metal.
The hangman's tree stands ready,
Hollow nooses swing in,
Destiny’s winds,
To bid found ado unto evil men.
Strong limbs bare heavy weight,
A scaled balance of ropes,
Tenuous strength.
Blind lady liberty turns,
Her gaze away.
At histories hesitation towards,
Real justice's justification.
Hard men ride ahead,
Leaving behind
Legends tin stars,
Amongst trail dust,
Remnants.
Behold the old west breath's,
Again,
Between books binding,
And words harsh black ink.
Hardened steel vs. freedoms,
Expansion.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
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.
“Cowboys” , big John Wayne starred.
Cowhands abandon him.
Call, joining the Goldrush.
Could greenhorn kids succeed.
Camp cook and chuck wagon,
Complete the trail crew drive.
Cow punching green schoolboys
Called on to claim their jobs.
Cimarron, the oldest,
Capricious, turned away.
Cow punching, green schoolboys
Combating bucking horse,
Caught on to rope, brand, herd
Cattle, and cow-horses.
Cattle drive is ready.
Cimarron follows close.
Cattle-rustlers kill Will,
Corralling all his herd.
Cow punching green schoolboys
Caught and killed the rustlers.
Complete the cattle-drive.
Cattle sold, gravestone bought.
Carved, “ Beloved Husband and Father”
8/22/2016
Not for contest:
Pleiades C
22 lines, 6 syllable each line
17th line 9 syllables
The Cowboys is a 1972 American western film starring John Wayne,
John Wayne nickname Duke
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cowboys
using;
http://www.howmanysyllables.com/poem_syllable_counter_workshop/index
Water Shortage
I have seen the future
Water famine and revolutions
Wars over water,
No not the kind of balloons
Of water people throw at
Each other, nor
A wet t. shirt competition,
But real war with blood that
Runs into dry gutters
Rustlers who kill animals for
Their blood and leave carcasses
To rot in the field.
Chilled blood with a chaser of water
Only the rich can afford.
The unwashed masses, with
Plastic Jerry cans, overturning
Water tankers, shower units
Have been dismantled.
Yes, I have seen the future and it stinks.
Hank lounged on his porch watchin' the sun slowly sinkin' in the west.
He'd cowboyed for nigh on sixty years and figgered he'd done his best.
Hank and his faithful hoss Old Dan was now enjoyin' their leisure years,
And he had time to recall his ranchin' days while tossin' back some beers!
He was so bow-legged from ridin' saddle he looked like a pair of pliers!
His hands was stained and gnarled from roll-yer-owns and mendin' wires.
He'd hung up his spurs, chaps and well-worn saddle without regret,
But he wore his scruffy boots, leather vest, jeans and sombrero yet.
He shuddered recalling stormy nights that spooked the wild-eyed steers,
Causin' hell-raisin' stampedes that endangered him and his peers.
He remembered more peaceful times ridin' herd with cattle happily grazin',
And a time or two chasin' cussed' rustlers with his .44 guns a-blazin'!
He swore he'd never eat another bean, tater or bacon in his life,
Since that's all Cooky knowed how to fix, a subject of constant strife!
He recalled how he stammered when meetin' ladies in many a saloon,
Which left him pawin' the floor with his pointy boots, feelin' like a goon!
Hank remembered cattle drives and in Abilene drawin' his meager pay,
Spendin' it on rot-gut whiskey and schemin' wimmin, blowin' it all away.
Hank peered into the distance and gazed at a lone pine tree in the vale,
Thinkin', "I want to be planted there when I've reached the end of the trail!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Out west, near Black Hills, over South Dakota way,
On land where layered rocks records eons before –
Some thieves rode the badlands that hot steamy day.
Rough riding rustlers raided a ranch; stole a boar.
Those thieves took, tackle, grain, food, and wine grapes.
Two rife and rifled cowboys planned to settle the score!
Rugged and fearless with sweat on hot napes,
They rode where the rattlers and bull snakes call home.
Both galloped fast and hard … must not let thieves escape.
But they stopped with their horses when they saw bison’s roam.
Felt stillness; saw vastness; amazed, each life reshapes.
The wilderness teaches with its silent, “Shalom.”
Paused, distantly viewing weird-wonderful shapes.
Great towers of fossils that give wildlife a home.
Two soul-searching cowboys ponder nature’s landscapes.
While prairie dogs and cottontails run for the loam,
The bobcats and vultures look down on the plains.
And turtles stay still in their portable home.
The Bighorns and badgers walk gullies in rains.
Meadowlarks sing songs while pretty pronghorns prance.
There, valleys hide critters in flowers and grains.
It’s a desolate land; so, it seems at first glance.
Plenty of majestic views extending for miles,
Masking deadly dangers that stalk the great expanse.
But back on the ranch families stock up woodpiles,
They tend to the gardens, feed chickens, and cows.
Their work is quite hard but they manage with smiles.
The villains still steal and the farmers push plows.
But two soul-searching cowboys made Heavenly vows.
Copyright October 12, 2014
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Cowboys in the Badlands -
Sponsor Isaiah Zerbst
Fold your tent now
Cowboy, the prairie sunset has come
Pull the hat low
Over the silent brow, let the horse go home
Without saddle,
It's round up time for you, the trail is done.
Bit and bridle;
O let it go free, and feel the weightless
World runs with it,
Put the branding iron down, blow out the sun;
The mind's habit
Shutting out the endless tedium and stress
Now can reclaim
The dignity that future-centered men
Denied; the fame
Past-centered men recalled and softly blend
With their own hopes;
And none but the dead ever realized.
Roll up the ropes
The cowboy no more rides, or seek the prize.
Rustlers die fast
Cowboys live long, lariat looping ferile glory;
Rodeo past,
The poled hat and belt tell all the final story.
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.
I heard tell some folks think cowboys built the West.
The only thing I know for sure is I always did my best
to give a man a good days work for an honest wage
ridin' among tumbleweeds and dried brush of sage.
I wear a Colt 45 to scare off rustlers and killin' snakes
and I don't play cutthroat poker with tinhorns or rakes.
It ain't never been an easy job, the life of a ranch hand,
herdin' cattle near the flowin waters of the Rio Grande,
but it's the only way I always wanted to spend my days,
beddin' down under the stars, watching the herd graze.
I'm keepin' one eye open for those wanderin' lil dogies,
chewin' on the end of what's left of smokin' my stogies.
I lassoed a proud stallion, and gentled that big paint.
He's been a good trail horse, so I got no complaint.
I was in love with a rodeo gal, a pretty lil' barrel rider
but she told me a cowboy wouldn't be a good provider.
So I strum my guitar, singing a lonesome cowboy song
about findin' a good woman who won't do me wrong.
One day I'll be an old cowpoke, lying up on that hill,
but not 'til my last roundup, and my body's had its fill
of ridin' the range, mendin' fences, ropin' mustangs,
and eatin' chuck wagon beans when the bell clangs.
I've been thrown off a bad bronc, name of Buckin' Jet,
but don't put my name on that tombstone; not just yet.
January 26, 2021
Cowboy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Old Jacob was hard, but that was the only life that he knew,
At fourteen made his first cattle drive and was top hand with the crew.
He could ride, rope, wrangle, and shoot,
And helped to hang a many owl hoot.
Indians on the prairie, some were okay,
But there was those that would lift your scalp and not a word would they say.
But that was the west and why men relied on there gun,
Cause mister dealing with rustlers and Indians sure ain’t no fun.
Well those that stayed with the drive at the end of the trail,
Had a few months worth of money and some yarns they could tell.
Not all blew their money on liquor and ladies,
Some were God fearing and knew about Hades.
Many a good cowpoke lost his life in those joints,
Getting all liquored up and going for his gun to make his point.
It would be all for nothing when the smoke cleared away,
The undertaker would be the reaper of rewards on those mournful days.
Old Jacob rode the trail till a stampede broke his back,
Caused by some rustlers as they made their attack.
Laid up for months he had to relearn to walk,
He hated for people to point at him and to gawk.
He stayed to himself in a little cabin out west of town,
And when he’d come in for supplies it would be after the sun would go down.
Never once asked for help just weren’t his way,
Old Jacob was my friend and that’s about all I guess I can say.
It was said by pilgrim sons next to the Boston Harbor,
That to take tax without redress was action of dishonor.
And so a team of farmers went and built themselves an army,
To drive the redcoats off their land and end George’s tyranny.
We’re beating drums and ask your sons to come now to our aid
We’re marching out as men along the patriot’s parade.
Them red-devil Injuns ain’t no good and they cavort in sin!
So forget your Ma’s and Pa’s my boys the calvr’y needs a win.
We’ll drive them savages off them fields and make that land our own,
Them whisky barons should pay too for drunks and broked men’s homes
We’re beating drums so tell your sons to come now to our aid
We’re marching out as soldiers along the patriot’s parade.
The government of 1812 wanted lands Canadian
they also set about with plans to take captured Lousianne.
Those Brits they really gave us cause with press-gang’d merchant sailors.
Rise up you merry lads and arm let’s feed those Brits to gators!
We’re beating drums to protect your sons so come now to our aid
We’re marching yet again along the patriot’s parade.
Keep sending sons to mount and ride against the red-man nations,
In Texas good men hold back Santa Anna’s salutations.
The yellow cinaman’s opium turns strong men into slaves,
We need to climb Mt. Fiji and teach Japan we rule the waves.
We’re beating on the drums again, not empire, just foreign aid;
We’re sailors, soldiers and marines on a patriot’s parade.
Them fed’ral scum think they can ru’n our way of life. ‘tain’t southern.
They’re try’na undercut our vote by free’n the ‘raff for breedin’.
Those southern states how dare they break from this nation we’re building?
We can’t let constitution bar the way that we are growing!
We’re sailors, soldiers and your sons on a patriot’s parade
We’re the real army and your true sons on patriot’s parade
You may think we’ve fought enough and we all wish that it were so,
But truth be told we need to scold Koreans on Ganghwado.
And even if that weren’t so bad rustlers have crossed the border,
We need more men that we can send to restore Texan order.
We’re beating on new drums, you’ll see, all dressed in golden braid,
The army, navy and marines on patriot parade!