Best Saloon Poems
Jenna’s Saloon on Soup Creek
Tania, Deb, Kim, Constance, Belle
Darlene, Connie, Paula as well
Work for Jenna in her saloon
Waiting on tables in fine tune.
Singing as customers are served
All things abnormal are observed
The gals listen to what goes on
Reporting all to Mayor Tom.
The saloon’s a place to relax
Where the regulars meet and chat
With plenty to drink and to eat
A night at Jenna’s is a treat.
Sheriff Koplin, David the Ranger
They watch over any stranger
Who is maybe looking for loot
Or someone they may wish to shoot.
Onto trouble, sharp as a knife
Is gambler Milton, faster than light
Deputy sheriff Michael Tor
And Prospector Pete on his horse.
Of Blacksmith Rees rogues be aware
He's got ultra hot furnace where
They'll find themselves burnt if they dare
Bestow folk mischief or despair.
But hey ho when the day is done
Everyone is out to have fun
Laughter, singing, it’s never bleak
At Jenna’s saloon on Soup Creek.
*+*+*
1st September 2022
On the top floor of Smidget’s, you could stay, if you paid,
‘Twas a clean-running place, now, so don’t be dismayed…
‘Twas up there, I’d a run-in with one of the boys,
For his snoring and mumbling had made quite a noise…
“I’ve no wish to fight you,” the bright young man said –
He stared at me then, and I thought I was dead,
For he fingered a knife that he kept in his belt
(I was sure that he wanted my skin and my pelt.)
But Puggily Smidget and Guru appeared,
Things began to look up, it was not as I feared!
For they each had a pistol (one was trained on my head
And one on the youngster who wanted me dead.)
“Now lie down, each one of you,” Prettisome said,
“or each one of you will be a-wishing he’s dead!
We’ll shoot off your noses, and shoot out your ears,
And then leave you looking like that all your years!”
So, I laid down my club, and he dropped his bright knife,
And each one of us muttered and prayed for his life.
But pretty soon, Smidget was whistling a tune,
(It was one she’d picked up from the downstairs saloon)
And Prettisome (who was her mother, it seems)
Came and knocked us both out, pistol-whip: “boys, sweet dreams!”
Then, when we came to, we were both wearing aprons,
And Prettisome said, “get out there, serve the patrons!”
Out there, twenty cowboys, as rough as I’d seen,
Were calling for whiskey, and each man looked mean,
But the boy and I poured out, again and again,
Until, of the twenty, not sleeping, were ten.
So, I picked up the OUZO, and poured THEM all some,
And they all drank it off, and their lips all turned numb,
And their eyes glazed a bit, and they fell to the floor
Except one old geezer, who wanted some more…
The boy and I crept out, then, near silently,
And met to continue our brawl ‘neath a tree
But it seemed, by that time, that his anger was spent,
And mine? Well, I couldn’t have said where it went…
“I’ve no wish to fight you,” the young man then said,
“Nor I, you,” I replied, and he pulled some old bread
From a pocket he had, just inside of his coat,
And we had bread, with OUZO, to wet a dry throat…
3/1/2019
She dances to the rhythm at a place where cowboys gather
She dances in the evening and in the afternoon
She's got no place she'd rather be and that's a wonderous thing
She knows a thousand tunes at the Buckle Up Saloon.
She looked for fame and fortune in a place called New York City
The price of fame was high and the friendly folks were few
Took a train ride back to Texas where some folks still ride horses
And thought about the cowboy who hoped she'd say "I do"
Well,she plays a lonely guitar and she sings of love and loss
And wonders where he calls home and if he's gone for good
While she thinks about the music and the memories he left -
Sings about the days gone by and hopes he understood
She dances to the rhythm at a place where cowboys gather
She dances in the evening and in the afternoon
She's got no place she'd rather be and that's a wonderous thing
She knows a thousand tunes at the Buckle Up Saloon
4-16-18
NOTE: I don't find the time, neither do I have much inclination, to write a great deal these
days. However, the occasional new piece gets composed, and this is one. I would like to take
this opportunity to thank everyone - Ruben, Raul, Andrew, Elaine, Patricia, Carol, Adeleke,
Krista, Trudi, Kristin, Bill, Shishir, Sami, James, Trudi and many, many others - who have
been so kind, supportive and appreciative both now and in the past. You are stars. I am in
your debt.
I know it's not the happiest piece, but it's what I have at the moment.
T.
Last Chance Saloon:
The deadbeat shuffle from Boardwalk to Boot Hill
Implores the synapse circuit of a short walk to the kill,
With one foot out of line one soon is gone
In Winter rains that fell all Summer long;
Never once did Zeus advise to pack a bag,
Only suck it up and tread the old main drag.
When first she shed her morals and her dress,
The channel burn adored her more than less,
Post-coital walks, romancing in the sun
Beat a path to living in the shadow of the gun;
As expectation always lets one down,
Rends the heart in two by softly skipping town.
From the stained-glass of an alcoholic haze
Wherein kaleidoscopic migraines snap and blaze,
The rusty barrelled gun scrapes at the head,
All the chambers full of coals and glowing red;
She resurfaces like some immortal doll,
And each bullet tastes of paracetamol.
So to raise the weary glass to mouth again,
To curse and toast her godforsaken name,
To down the medicine and down some more
And ride the bona-fide revolving bat-swing door;
Swear by saints alive to never leave this room,
No more chances left to chance in this last chance saloon.
Which Cowboy bites dust tomorrow at noon,
Fighting duel to end, to death the tune,
The sun at noon shows no glare,
Bystanders, time of day fair,
Outside the saloon, a hot day in June.
Poetry Competition Entry: HIGH NOON POETRY CONTEST
Sponsor: Joseph May
Date: 07/05/2022
The poker game wuz progressin' purty well 'til Iron Mike started a ruckus!
Seems he had some spare aces up his sleeve, that dirty, sneaky cuss!
One-Eyed Pete didn't cotton to them shenanigans and drew his forty-four!
Iron Mike jumped up, toppled chairs and tables a-skedaddlin' fer the door!
That started the biggest brawl that the town uv Buckskin Joe had ever seen!
The mob wuz yellin' fer Iron Mike's head but he had prudently fled the scene!
One-Eared Earl, the barkeep, fired his rods a-tryin' to restore some order.
Meanwhile, Iron Mike wuz racin' on a stolen hoss fer the Mexican border!
The pianner player kept playin', "A Hot Time In The Old Town Tonight!"
('Twas Three-Fingered Clyde who tickled the keys fer free booze ever' night!)
Big Nell, who belted out bawdy songs each night, wuz involved, fists a-flyin'!
She busted some noses and shattered some teeth, and I ain't a-lyin'!
A dozen er so uv Madam Rosita's soiled doves joined in the fray as well,
A-kickin' and a-scratchin' and pullin' hair and generally raisin' 'ell!
There wuz so many shots fired that night, it seemed like war had started.
Many drunks awoke the next day to find that thar hair had been parted!
Studs Flanigan, the bouncer, wuz trampled as the fight spilled out on the street.
This sensitive affair caused a deeper rift between the rabble and the town's elite!
So as not to hear the fussin' and cussin', moms covered their kids tender ears.
Old-timers claimed they hadn't enjoyed sech a show in Buckskin Joe fer years!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Welcome to Gutter Ball Saloon
Where careful words waft through the tavern;
Serpentine swirls with evil intentions.
Watch your step and pocketbook.
Observe the chap in the derby hat.
No, the other one.
No, the other one…with the honeycomb vest.
That singular sap is one of kind.
Or one of ten; a soldier-still pin at full attention
Standing in formation on the glossy maple
Eager to be wrecked, toppled head-over-heels.
Spare.
He’s been gassed, you see.
Some fancy bouquet of honey perfume
Mingled with cheap cigars and one too many.
He’s feeling lucky and takes a gamble.
Throws in his hand and a couple of dice for good measure.
Snake eyes!
Just look at that dame.
Her dark velvet accentuated physique
Candy apple lips that drip pearls
A string of words she drapes about his neck
Intoxicatingly beautiful.
The phrasing…and she’s a bit of a looker too.
A real up-and-comer with a knack for bowling.
Spare.
A quick spritz and yank of the string.
I dare you to look away.
He’s choking…but of course he is.
He never had a chance in that bowler hat.
Just look at those red cheeks.
Flush.
She’s got him by the balls.
Snake eyes.
Now if you’ll look closely…
I’ve got your wallet.
Strike!
4/26/15
“Go west young man”, the neighbors said; but they wisely stayed at home.
From pianoforte to pianoforte, saloon to saloon, town to town I roam.
Surrounded by Phillistines, “soiled doves”, cowpokes, and dullards,
Gamblers, dealers, dance hall girls, and other assorted drunkards.
If a fellow’s feeling generous, he might leave something in my jar,
Or even offer me a drink of the “good stuff” behind the bar.
I guess my fortune can be made where folks are hot, dry, and thirsty,
Playing sad songs on old pianofortes that are musty, dusty, and rusty.
I grew up playing Beethoven, Chopin, Bach and Wagner.
The only songs these cretins know are all by Stephen Foster.
A gambler in a pink silk shirt once asked for a Franz Lizt tune.
I was so surprised, I fell off my chair, to the amusement of the room.
The “faded rose” smells like a horse, and looks the worse for wear.
But if a few more drovers buy me beers, I probably will not care.
If I should wake up next to her, I won’t know what to say.
But she’ll just pretend to be asleep as I quietly slip away.
Through hazes I might recognize a face; or maybe they all look the same.
But in town’s like Rotgut, last night’s best friend won’t remember your name.
I hope someday, somewhere I’ll find a good pianoforte in tune--
But that’s something I’ll probably never find in a one-street town saloon.
If they don’t happen to catch my name, “Eighty-Eight Fingers” will usually do;
That’s all any of them remembers anyway, after they’ve had a few.
Things wuz purty quiet 'til them thirsty cowpokes stormed into Abilene town!
They'd been on the long and dusty trail and wuz ready to toss some whiskey down!
The trail boss paid 'em thar wages sayin', "Boys, behave yerselfs! Yer on yer own!"
They invaded the town like a swarm of locusts chased by a Kansas cy'ber'clone!
Like good cowpokes, they saw to the needs of thar hosses, feedin' 'em hay and oats,
Then skedaddled to the Long Branch Saloon to sate thar dry and thirsty throats!
They wuz met with open arms by Madam Bonita and bartender One-Eared Bob,
Who heard them coins a-jinglin' in the cowboys' jeans that they intended to rob!
Pianner Player Two-Fingered Pete played, "Thar'll Be A Hot Time In Town Tonight!"
He'd seen it all b'for and knowed b'for the night wuz done there'd be a wild fight!
Bouncer Tornado Tom tried to confiscate thar rods, but the boys had none of that!
After all, a cowpuncher feels mighty naked without his pointy boots and handy gat!
Some of the fellers started gittin' a bit too familiar with Madam Bonita's soiled doves!
Rabble offended at sech liberties with thar wimmin, resulted in pushes and shoves!
One-Eared Bob seen trouble wuz brewin' and placed his trusty 12-gauge on the bar,
And yelled, "I don't want no trouble! If'n yer lookin' fer trouble, git on outta h'yar!"
The boys paid no mind to Bob and started cussin' and tossin' aimless punches!
But Two-Fingered Pete brought peace and order playin' one of his sagest hunches,
Singin', "Oh, Where Is My Wanderin' Boy Tonight?" bringin' the rowdy bunch to tears!
The Sheriff mused, "I ain't seen sech tranquility at the Long Branch fer many years!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Copyright (All Rights Reserved)
The Saga of Zack Waverly continues By JT Curtis
In The Affair Of The
Lost Soul Saloon
While sliding off my horse
Not a soul could be found
As I paused for a moment
to take a look around
My horse was acting nervous
So, I leashed him to a rail
Then dusted off the remnants
Of the days spent on the trail
I've been about a week
without a whisky or a brew
and the way I'm feeling lately
there ain't nothing else that'd do
So, I moved my heavy legs
As I stumbled cross the street
then barged through the doors
and made a beeline for a seat
A cloud of dust erupted
as I fell into a chair
and when it all had settle
only silents filled the air
Where is everyone
where's the music, where's the crowd
I was thinking to myself
Then I said it, right out loud.
Page 1 to be continued.......
Geez fella won’t you look at me,
I’ve got my best frock on.
My girdles tight, my bosom heaves
and I’m stuck here ‘til mornin’.
You’re welcome in this Rotgut bar,
but kid you heed my warnin’,
git rid that ol’ ten gallon hat,
and don’t you start no brawlin’.
Stop fumblin’ with Sally-Anne
she’s just a broke ol’ toy.
It’s my turn for a night of fun
So come o’er here cowboy.
Hang yer belt up on the door,
ignore the ol’ grave digger,
the whisky’s cheap and I am too,
So come on, squeeze my trigger.
Ralph the garbage rummaging raccoon, found Nipper the cat at Buttermilk Saloon,
he had been suddenly sadly jilted and bleeding heart was extremely wilted.
Decided to stay out with the toms all night, to avoid a cat lover’s feline fight,
she saw him with her cousin in the alley, witnessed them fondly dilly dally.
Ralph being the friend that he was stepped in to aid the love sick cat because,
he adopted Nipper at a very young age, found him under thick forest dry sage.
Ralph toted him to the beastly clinic; he was expiring mighty quick,
drank the house of buttermilk twice his size, he passed out, four paws to the skies.
His paunch was pumped of rotten stench, Ralph was sure his waist lost an inch;
from buttermilk he got really loaded, leaving his small belly hugely bloated.
Ralph was a big brother to Nipper that day, a definite superhero to his fiancé,
who came to her prompt female senses and apologized for her brash offenses.
Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey
A June Night in Rotgut Saloon
In walked Lefty Red behind him lay many dead
into this old dusty town his tired horse had tread
Well known his draw was quick as lightning
his stare deadly cold and so very frightening
Stranger where is the nearest watering hole
getting drunk and riled up is my goal
Ahead 120 paces is our old Rotgut saloon
enter there and you'll get your wish soon
Lefty Red , cold, bitter and as hard as granite
entered and saw a scene like he had planned it
Crowd was loud, rowdy as hell and so very drunk
beer and whiskey flowing , an odor foully stunk
Give me a beer and two shots of your best redeye
send over that sweet blonde philly that I spy
Barkeep did exactly as he was very sternly told
That philly's man was none other than Billy Cold
Billy Cold that had 7 carved notches on his gun
even once cut a man slowly to death just for fun
The stare sent a hard and well understood reply
want this har' woman , get her , jest you try
Lefty Red knocked down whiskey shots and his beer
spun around to show a fastdraw rig , he had no fear
Billy wasted not a second to make his best play
drawed his 45 to make that insulting Lefty Red pay
As his hammer was so very quickly cocked back
his ears heard a loud booming pistol crack
A huge hole suddenly tore open in his chest
a mistake, for Lefty Red was always the very best
Body was calmly , swiftly and carefully taken away
nothing new, this was like just about any other day
Lefty told the piano man to shut up and play a tune
time for the pretty saloon girl and getting drunk soon
Townfolks remember so very well that hot June day
Lefty Red had tested Billy Cold and made him pay
Forty-five slug and justice had caught up with that man
as Lefty Red had for seven, long searching years planned
07-08-2014
Who are you
Dan McGrew?
You sound quite mean
If rumours' true
You lodged yourself
Inside his head
Some seventy years
Still, now you're dead
A tale of love
Of bars and booze
The wheel of fate
Alas, you lose
The west was wild
Back in the day
As danger framed
Each male afray
But what of Lou?
The lady fair
Of unkissed lips
And tousled hair
A broken heart
May never mend
A scar unhealed
Until the end
So as our story
Precious told
Still held in head
Though tired and old
A life not lost
No shooting here
Just words uncovered
Crystal clear
By man with joy
For life, 'tis true
May soon reunite
With his own lady Lou
After rounding up some cattle
I headed to the saloon
To have a drink or two
And hear a bawdy tune
Cowpokes were gambling
And guzzling up their beer
The women were upstairs
Their bosoms amply filled
Waiting to give us all a thrill
After a couple shots of whiskey
A poker game I did seek
Hoping I'd soon be on a winning streak
My luck was going good and
The cowpokes I was beating
Until big Jim accused me of cheating
A fight broke out and turned into a brawl
Big Jim got hit, and took a mighty fall
When it was all over I was still standing tall....
The cattle would be rounded up tomorrow once again
And I would be right there, ridin' on the plains
1-26-2021
Cowboy Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier