I am not quite a genuine cowboy,
but I know that somewhere deep down inside.
If I had only been born way back when,
I could surely punch cows, rope, brand and ride.
I always wanted to be a cowhand,
oh, what a glorious life that would be.
Riding along with the herd cross the land,
living a life that was simple and free.
I'd rise before the sun started to shine,
ride all day under the sweltering heat.
Fifteen hours a day for nearly no pay,
just a biscuit and a few beans to eat.
I could help a thousand head to birth calves,
with a cold wind blowin' rain down my back.
Or ride along a thousand miles of fence,
spend a winter in a leaky line shack.
When on a drive and "breakin' day" gets called,
though I was froze stiff, wet, muddy and damp.
I'd roll out of bed to stretch these old bones,
they would hear the popping clear cross the camp.
I s'pose that now I think hard about it,
maybe cowboyin' just ain't quite right for me.
Perhaps I'll stay here in my writer's room,
riding the range through cowboy poetry.
A gauche gaucho,
a galoot,
rawboned and grizzly,
rode into
a snoring border town.
"Google me," he said,
as he hitched his mare to
a wild hair.
The cranky cowhand
had gambled on
an internet cantina being open
but the only horse in town
had been gridlocked for hours.
Later they found him
slumped over
a frozen quesadilla.
"Poor Bastard." They cooed.
"Poor lonely gaucho
with his empty man-bag
and no mail.
Just a gadget for company,
an uncharged old ‘Blackberry’.
O the god-damn humanity."
Sittin’ in th’ saddle. Gotta soon skedaddle.
School marm says she’ll tattle. Sheriff wants a battle.
Kissed her on the cheek jes’ to git a li’l peek
at her widow’s peak ‘cause she’s purty an’ petite.
Gotta hankerin’ to git off ol’ Buck and sit
a spell afore I quit and have a chaw to spit.
Cogitatin’ and bidin’ time afore ridin’
down that canyon hidin’ lest I git a chidin’.
Starin’ out blinkin’, doin’ some proper thinkin’
‘bout the stars a twinklin’ and my heavy drinkin’.
My casual, carousin’ rife, hidin’ from the strife
of settlin’ down my life an’ takin’ on a wife.
Soon I’ll fergit the threat, fergit my social debt
I don’t wanna sweat dirt jes’ to pay a moral bet
farmin’ unfertile land, or workin’ for the man.
Druther take a stand and work as lonely cowhand.
Might as well admit it, I’m a social misfit.
Don’t wanna submit it, or give up an’ quit it.
Searchin’ but cain’t seem to find comfort in my mind.
Guess it’s ’bout time I recognize I’m doin’ jes’ fine.
Cowboy rides horse cowboy boots in stirrups
Cowboy hat waving in hand, yeehaw it’s grand,
Cowgirl is on the range! Lasso by corral
Appaloosa horse hurrah! Glad he’s a cowhand.
Dreaming of equipage horse-drawn
Carriage with attendants at wedding,
Hoedown rootin’ good time with
Root beer float, now kiss bride in west heading.
Galloping palomino golden tan coat
Rapid pace fast on each stride,
Cream-colored mane and tail fly high
Fair beautiful daughter sure and firm in abide.
Stagecoach rolls on by, near town Apache Junction
Locomotive sporting cowcatcher grille,
Black Stallion feisty and alive; husband’s
Love abounding in firm steadiness still.
Texas longhorn cattle cowherd on the range
Equestrian horseback riders like cowhide,
Head ’um out, move ’um out, rawhide! Open land wander and graze
Riding habit outfit, western sunset love now wide.
A gauche gaucho,
a galoot,
rawboned and grizzly,
rode into
a snoring border town.
"Google me," he said,
as he hitched his mare to
a wild hair.
The cranky cowhand
had gambled on
an internet cantina being open
but the only horse in town
had been gridlocked for hours.
Later they found him
slumped over
a frozen quesadilla.
"Poor Bugger." They cooed.
"Poor lonely gaucho
with his empty man-bag
and no mail.
Just a gadget for company,
an uncharged blackberry.
The god-damn humanity."
He's a cowboy in Connecticut
All Southern drawl and wide tooth grin
No matter how he tries it ain't no lie
The boy just don't fit in
He wears his Stetson hat, Alligator boots
Jingle Jangle Spurs with stylish Chaps
He dresses the part this cowboy work of art
Draws attention wherever he's at
He loves his Karaoke
Always requests a yodel song
When he's up on the stage folks don't know what to say
As he asks them all to sing along
You may wonder why he's not in Texas
He prefers it brisk and cold
Since he was born and raised among the Northern crazed
But it's the cowboy life that stole his soul
He has no cowhand to help with roundups
Local Yocals wouldn't dare be seen with him
He rides and ropes on his bike cats and dogs at night
With no horse or cattle to his name
Cause he's a cowboy in Connecticut
All Southern drawl and wide tooth grin
Where no matter how he tries it ain't no lie
The boy just don't fit in
The first time we danced I knew I was hooked
My palms were sweaty, my brain was cooked
I breathed only you as you captured my mind
I’ll love you forever even if you go blind
I can feel your body, soft as silk in hand
I’m stuck on your love like I’m in quicksand
Rescue me darling, I’ll be your cowhand
Let’s ride the range and make our last stand
Roping and riding and shouting whoopee
You’re bringing out that cowboy inside of me
You’re packing the heat that sets me on fire
So cool me down honey cause I’m a live wire
Bedding down outdoors as the sun sinks low
Your lips are on fire even as the cool wind blows
Let’s make a night of it and let the good times roll
And I got a pencil so we can keep score
Nobody’s perfect except you of course
And I love it each time you sway on that horse
Your movements can make a good man go bad
I’m ready for launch from my launching pad
Your movements are perfect you’re a number ten
So let’s love away the night until dawn begins
Riding and shooting and chasing the wind
Then let’s turn around and do it all again
Cowboys herdin’ cattle cross dusty trails
Sandy hooves paint ground fog in their wake
Shuffling along swattin’ flies off molty hides
Riders amble aside keeping eye on their stake
Chuck wagon camps, setting up by a creek
Beans and pan bread cookin’ over hot stones
Coffee’s meandering aroma penetrates the air
Greeting men carrying saddles over tired bones
Ranch hands scout the waters nearby
Look to the sky to judge the night
Storms a comin’ as night encroaches
Coyotes restless, cries rent last light
Cattle dogs alert to changes
Nip the heels of stragglin’ calves
Cowhand slaps his rope while coaxing
Blistered hands and lips in need of salves
Cowhands sing to calm their charges
Bedrolls gathered near the fire
Dreaming of a trail once taken
And of their loves as they retire
I have a name for my husband. One that can be repeated. I call him cowboy. But
he tells me I am wrong. He never redeoed, nor a Saturday night cowboy was he.
And he was way to young for the cattle drives of history. Born on his father’s
homestead in Nebraska sandhill land. He started working full time on a ranch as
a lad of fourteen. All of the work they did back then was done with horses and
teams. True cars were around in ‘45, but tractors were hard to be found. So for 8
years he proudly worked on the famous 101 Nebraska ranch. In l9 hundred and
57 I started teaching up there. When my teaching job was done the cowboy and
the teacher became as one. I moved up the beautiful valley to the ranch where he
did work and don’t laugh I then became the cook. And while we worked we kept
our eyes and ears open for a ranch of our own. At last we were blessed with the
ranch of our dreams on the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota Land.
OK, maybe he is right. Maybe a cowboy he's not. He is a mechanic, a
pediatrician, an obstetrician, a veterinary, a plumber (wells), a house keeper
(stalls), a blacksmith, a dietician, a truck driver, a farmer (crops), a carpenter
(corrals and maternity wards), a construction worker, a landscaper (fencing), a
teacher, a road grader (keeps roads oven year round), a hunter (hunts stray
critters), a trapper (beavers to keep our water ways open and skunks to keep our
sinuses working), a cowboy (cattle work), a welder, a rancher, a ranch hand, a
cowhand and a_______ I give, I give. He is a Jack of all Trades, but since his
name is Billy I can’t go around calling him Jack, so he will always be my cowboy
to me. P. S. he is definitely not a modern cowboy. No three wheelers, no
pickups, no motorcycles. He did his cattle work by horseback.
You’re gettin’ some sleepy now,
Your attention does lag—
As you herd those frisky cows,
While back there ridin’ drag.
How long you been a tail man,
Keepin’ strays in a bunch,
Ain’t important to a cowhand
That ain’t got him a hunch.
You’d rather be in the rear
Than out a ridin’ lead—
You’d rather be like a steer
That satisfies a need.
You ain’t gonna change the world,
You’re just a gettin’ by—
Some say they done broke yer mold,
Others would like to try.
You’re old but you keep ridin’
Though your gray horse does sag—
You know there ain’t no hidin’
When you and God ride drag.
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