Long Fellers Poems
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Fellers if you really want to save face,
And stay in your little darlin's grace,
Clear your mug of all that stubble,
With Burma Shave on the double!
She kindly refused his fond embrace,
Because of all that stubble on his face!
Shave a little closer next time, Bob!
Burma Shave will do the job!
She may admire that dimple on your chin,
And those pearly whites when you grin,
But if she refuses to give you a kiss and hug,
Slather a heap of Burma Shave on your mug!
If she says your face feels like steel wool,
And says that you appear rather dull,
Romance will improve and for sure she'll rave,
If only you'll lather your mug with Burma Shave!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
little Rock
Doves at my feet
Imploring eyes watch
as I eat and I will share my
lunch with you not
shoo you away
like others do
for I recognize
your tam'ed nature
Am greatly pained by your
fallen stature Dovecotes kept since
Ancient times Now you're persecuted
for our crimes Considered dirty flying vermin
Might I suggest a different sermon Giving Praise
To Thee Dear Dove our oldest symbol of Peace and Love
in times of war you have served us well For our men you flew
and fell Honored couriers meritorious saving lives on wings glorious
not just for your flight to flourish But by your eggs and meat to
nourish Been kept for sport and even pet Pigeons are Doves we do
forget sporting the same flute like coo and
head bobbing meet-cute "How do you do?"
************************ One and The same as famed in fable ********
Ordained therein by King Eagle
"...your name shall be used, dear Dove
as long as the world shall last, for Love" Of
course of course we are all mortal yet you are
birds above and moral Models of monogamy and
doting parents Bonded family and lucky for us City
dwellers amid the chaos you little fellers happily our
Birds of Peace break bread with us on our streets
In The Name Of Dove!
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)
A Little Phone Call Malcolm and Donald
by Bob Moore
Hello Donald
That Afro-American President, lived there just before you
agreed to take these Middle Eastern fellers from Naru
they are a bloody handful, getting worser every day
when you gonna send a boat, and take them all away
A deals a deal out here in Oz, even if its dumb
hope you will not renege, we’re still your bestest chum
here in the Southern Hemisphere, and maybe in the world
we help to fight in all your wars, so don’t act like a girl
--
Hello Malcom
I heard about that stupid deal, you did before he left
a swap for some Columbians, you both must be bereft
not sure which of them is worse, but one thing that I know
there’ll be some heavy vetting, before you let them go
Out here we have our own problems, don’t know if you’ve heard
eight years of Pres, Obama, but now the people stirred
they want to make America, the way it used to be
no matter where you come from, settle in, and you’ll be free
So nobody can tell me, what is best for me to do
friendship, begging, threatening, its not all about you
I have a land of willing soles, and if they work with me
we will make America, great again, you’ll see.
Goodbye
Well, I see that Congress is proposin' another trillion dollar spree!
Those inept buffoons must think money grows upon a tree!
The treasury is crankin' out bales of twenty-dollar bills,
Doin' their part to cure (and inflate) the nation's many ills!
Funds were 'loaned' to help carmakers, now they're hollerin' fer more!
A ton of dough was 'loaned' to banks, but ain't nobody keepin' score!
Millions was designated to help home foreclosures to abate.
Where has my money gone? I've seen minimal results to date!
Funds are proposed fer more sand fer the beaches of New Joisey,
And city officials want a water park out west in frigid Boise!
Frenzied lobbyists are scurryin' about fer a portion of the pork,
To build an emergency landin' strip on the Hudson in New York!
Money is probably well-spent fer roads, bridges and agin' sewers,
But spare me the cost of subsidizin' sports arenas and sozzled brewers.
Lack of foresight by the banks and politicians got us in this mess,
Now they cover their boondoggles with my money, nonetheless!
Hordes of politicians gleefully gather at the bottomless trough,
Elbowin' others fer largesse they claim will make us better off.
Is there no end to compensatory spendin' and open-ended lendin'?
Hey! That's my money you fellers are so very inept at spendin'!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
I took a stroll through Boot Hill Cemetery the other day,
To take a look at where outlaws and other rabble lay.
Some graves were marked by stones, others by weathered board;
Many covered with cairns of rock, residents known only by the Lord!
As I moseyed through the weeds and brambles from tomb to tomb,
I read interestin' epitaphs on how those fellers met their doom!
"Here lies the mortal shell of bank robber Tim McGraw;
Bad luck for Tim - the bank teller was quicker on the draw!"
"Beneath this turf resides big-time gambler Jedidiah Greeves;
He played Texas hold-em with too many aces up his sleeves!"
"Here dwells 'Hank' Hankston who 'borrowed' the judge's steed;
He was hanged from a lone oak tree for this nefarious deed!"
"Here inhabits Cletus O'Toole who had a run-in with the law;
The high sheriff won the battle on the dusty streets of Wichita!"
"Molding in this lonely grave is Joe Bronson, notorious cattle thief;
Wranglers dealt with Joe in a hail of lead with whom they had a beef!"
"Cody Blanks went on a drunken toot causing mayhem and injury;
The judge sentenced him to be hanged as suggested by the jury!"
These fellers were planted with their boots on accordin' to local lore;
That's why it will be known as Boot Hill Cemetery now and forever more!
There ain't nothin' a cowboy is prouder of than his faithful horse,
Except that is, maybe his hat and his pointy-toed boots of course!
In sleet, snow and rain he'll pull the old hat down over his ears,
As he stands guard over the restless herd of skittish steers!
He'll wear his old sweat-stained hat to Saturday night dances,
And to protect him from the sun and rain while fixin' fences.
At the end of day he'll guzzle a coupl'a beers, his thirst to slake,
Plantin' his boots on the brass rail with his pards to take a break!
He'll wear his old slouch hat from dawn 'til at night he hits the hay,
Never doffin' it for nothin' 'cept if'n a pretty lady passes his way,
Or use it to water his hoss and feed him oats is the other exception!
For the niceties of society and the social graces he has little affection!
Maybe he can't afford a fancy pair of them Levi or Wrangler jeans,
And he must tolerate Cooky's tiresome chuck of bacon and beans,
But when it comes to his hat and boots he won't compromise.
The hat must be a Stetson and Tony Lama boots are what he buys!
He throwed his leg over his saddle horn one day and had this to say:
"Boys, when I come to the end of the trail and cash in my chips someday,
I don't want you fellers a-carryin' on and a-bellerin when I'm gone.
Jes' promise you'll bury me in my dusty hat and scruffy boots and carry on!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
I was daydreamin' the other day a-munchin' on my oats,
Gazin' across the pasture at the cows, sheep and goats.
Them fellers sure do live a life of ease as compared to me.
When I tell you about my plight, I think that you will agree!
They get to graze and lounge about while I do all the work.
Often they'll glance my way with a self-satisfied smirk.
I get the sting of a quirt if my duties I should ever shirk.
It's enough to drive this weary old war-horse berserk!
I will readily admit and I'll be the very first to concede,
It's for sure I ain't a handsome, prancin' Arabian steed.
But if I may be permitted to say somethin' in my defense.
I'm certainly blessed with good old common horse sense!
Them arrogant snobs ain't "saddled" with all this silly tack,
Nor do they bear three hundred pounds of cowpoke on their back!
And they don't have that dude a-spurrin' 'em on each flank.
I could get along very well without that, to be perfectly frank!
About the only highlight in my life is some new shoes now and then,
And if I'm able to survive, I'll retire to frolic in the glen.
Perhaps they'll take pity on me when I become old and gray.
Til then, I'll plod along eatin' my meager rations of oats and hay!
Dear Ma and Pa: I'm now a proud United States Marine!
I've found it purty easy to slip into their tough routine.
Some of them city fellers think things is really rough,
But growin' up on the farm has really made me tough!
Why, they even let us sleep-in 'til almost five o'clock,
Then, sergeants rant and rave to awaken us hapless flock!
You make your bunk and shine your shoes, if time will allow,
And then march to the dinin' mess for some hearty chow!
On the firin' range I've got three medals for aimin' true,
And though I'm only a hundred pounds and am but five foot two,
I can out-run and out-jump anyone on the obstacle course,
And flip them macho guys to the ground with but little force!
Pa, this shore beats sloppin' hogs and shuckin' corn,
And gazin' at mules' rumps a-plowin' at the break of morn,
Or milkin' cows, tendin' goats or hoein' rows of taters,
Or sweatin' under the Hoosier sun pickin' pecks of maters!
There's even an indoor outhouse and all the hot water you crave.
This shore does make it handy when the fellers need to shave!
Shucks, I'm a-thinkin' about makin' a career as a Marine.
That's all for now, as ever, your lovin' daughter, Darlene.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Two old cowpokes were reminiscing about the olden days,
Comparing thoughts about the way things are nowadays.
Spending the afternoon guzzling beer at the local saloon,
Chawing terbaccy aiming near misses at the brass spitoon!
"Well, they is even wimmin herdin' dogies in designer jeans.
Instead uv a horse, they is usin' fancy all-terrain machines!
Dudes wear alligator boots an' jeans with Calvin Klein labels.
Ya kin bet they won't curry a horse er muck th' stables!"
"Each mornin' th' boss has a tooth-grindin' decision to weigh;
Will it be th' helicopters er pick-ups fer th' roundup today?
It wuz no big decision whut we wuz to use, uv course,
We'd jes' saddle up an' ride th' trail on our faithful horse!"
"I've even heerd tell they now uses cell phones to keep in touch.
We wuz jes' outta luck if'n we got in a serious clutch.
Fer chuck we had beans, pertaters an' applesauce.
Nowadays, if'n they don't git fancy grub they gits mighty cross!"
"I reckon the things we is talkin' about ain't politically correct,
But I 'spose it's a good thing now an' agin to recollect,
On how us ol' fellers did th' job in good ol' yesteryear.
Ol' pard, let's mosey up to th' bar an' git another beer!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)