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Details | Cowboy Poetry |

Carnival of Hatred

“Come one, come all!”
The hawker summons
Try your luck
On the unmoored Ferris wheel

Hurl a dart
At the Kewpie dolls
Win one for the lady
To consummate the deal

(Chorus)
Intruders in the festival
Outsiders at the gates
Nothing like a carnival
To bring up dormant hates

Where the pavement meets the grass
Behind the stand of funnel cakes,
Someone's getting hornery
Their pants down at their feet

This balloon-tank life
Is more than I can take
This Friday night special
Affords me no relief

(chorus)

Prizes, prizes, and more prizes
Mustachioed lady dons disguises
The smell of ether and saw dust
A dead roller coaster under rust

They say life is a funhouse
That explains why everyone is so ugly
A grotesque face in a curvy mirror –
A cotton-candy bed for an endless nightmare –

It’s carnival time, again.

Details | Cowboy Poetry |

It's Good To Be a Cowboy

It’s good to be a cowboy,
just ask my old friend Dane,
who spends his days riding
across the Texas plains,
working for a big ranch,
he cuts, lassos, and herds,
brings them in at round-up,
brands them all in turn.
Works out in the sunshine,
rides hard for his pay,
heads on down to Randy’s
for a drink at close of day.
the bartender there always
shows his picture to cowgirls,
Dane’s a local legend,
on raging bulls he’s twirled.
Some women try to tame him,
one day one might succeed,
but right now he’s just happy
giving them what they need.

It’s good to be a cowboy,
just ask my buddy Bill,
he grew up loving westerns,
I guess he always will.
He loves the boots and hats,
even owns a bolo tie,
if it weren’t for those old movies
he’d have never learned to ride.
Takes trail-rides with his children
out in the country air,
keeps them from their cell-phones,
builds memories to spare.
Takes them to wild west shows,
where old time ballads ring,
doesn’t take much prodding
before the kids start to sing.

It’s good to be a cowboy,
just ask our sheriff Max,
even when out on the job
he still wears a white hate.
Some say that his dark skin
makes the cowboy-look strange,
forgetting all those freed slaves
that once rode the range.
But Max doesn’t give a whit,
he’s an honest, weathered soul,
and every year he dresses up
for the town police festival.
He puts on all his cowboy duds,
plays the old west lawman,
the kids all run up to him
making finger-guns with hand,
But those buckaroos are quick,
he’s never outdrawn a one,
but it’s enough for the sheriff
to see the tykes having fun.

It’s good to be a cowboy,
just ask ol’ Jimmy-Ray,
living down in sunny Georgia,
his feet in the red clay.
he’s never even rode a horse,
but the don't bothered him,
the cowboy code is his bible,
you can see it in his grin.
He’s quite the man of honor,
and will always treat your fair
in his hometown barbecue
if you ever do eat there.
He’s polite to the ladies,
looks each man in the eye,
on days off in his straw hat
his ATV he rides.
He stays loyal to one woman,
his great pride and his joy,
to her he’ll always tip his hat,
it’s good to be a cowboy.
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