Long Historyold Poems
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George Washington an Old Fuddy-Duddy?
By Elton Camp
What image of Washington comes to mind?
In with your money is the one you will find
Right there George is, on the one-dollar bill
And looking humorless, old and extremely ill
No worse portrait could anyone possibly pick
It is showing a man who is aged, ugly and sick
Some fuddy-duddy is just what he appears to be
But that image of him is wrong, as we will see
Most of what we know of him is really incorrect
Now Parson Weem’s lies we’ve come to detect
“George Washington couldn’t possibly tell a lie
No matter if he wanted to, there’s no need to try.”
The parson told us about the chopped cherry tree
That story is just as false as it can possibly be
The Founding Father had traits good and bad
So, exaggeration and lies there’s no need to add
Handsome as a young man as well as quite tall
In a group of men, he towered above them all
In picking a wife, Washington really did excel
Martha was so pretty and also very rich as well
A young army officer, he was ambitious & bold
But not always successful, if the truth be told
Washington lost far more battles than he won
The Fort Necessity surrender surely wasn’t fun
That record didn’t stop his advancement, of course
He became commander of the Revolutionary force
Rather than hole up in a mansion in some big town,
Living with the troops with his wife he was found
After founding a country, he did an amazing thing
By serving as leader, but wouldn’t become a king
After two terms, the presidency George did yield
Return to Mt. Vernon & manage his land and field
Perhaps an amazing fact most folks will now find
Part of his living was from the making of moonshine
How does this fit with all the stuff we’ve been told
About the grim-looking guy inside your billfold?
Another thing about him that gives him greater charm
Washington introduced the mule to the American farm
He was the first president who could be considered green
To him, the advantages of manure as fertilizer was seen
Those Washington stories are enough to make one quiver
Like him throwing a silver dollar across the Potomac River
So no old fuddy-duddy was he or did he ever come to be
It’s that awful dollar bill picture that in our minds we see
Continued From:
3. Quien es?" "Who is it?" Part 3
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195853
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"I find it very hard that I should be the only one to suffer the most extreme penalties of the
law." - BILLY the Kid
- In an interview while on route to his execution in Lincoln County New Mexico where he was
sentenced to be hanged.
Back then it didn't matter who was right or wrong.
What mattered was who had the fastest gun.
The untamed Old West lived by a code back then. "I'll Die Before I Run."
An 18 year old boy wanders into town. All of the locals stare the young stranger down.
All of his instincts tell him to turn around, but he can't turn his back and run.
The youngster can't afford any fear. The kid's found himself much needed work here,
but the competition's greed is ruthless. That's why he wears a gun.
Young William Bonney was just another cowboy
looking for work to earn an honest day's pay.
He rode into Lincoln County, New Mexico as a simple hired rancher's hand,
but he'd ride out to become a legend one day.
Today he's America's most famous bad boy,
but he left us more legend than fact of all he did.
His legend continues to live on in stories, movies, books and song.
Who hasn't heard of BILLY the Kid?
BILLY the Kid's life of crime for many it seems
has been greatly exaggerated to the extremes.
He never robbed a bank, stagecoach or train.
He never harmed an innocent for pleasure or financial gain.
He was just a common stock thief. He'd steal horses and cattle
from corrupt, rich Cattle Barons who'd respond in bloody battle.
It was a lifestyle that Billy truly didn't desire,
but when your wanted by the law employers don't hire.
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To Continue Go To:
5. Billy, the Kid Part 2
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195851
Frank James ‘Been Living Too Long
(1843-1915)
The old man signs autographs, telling young boys how a lifetime of crime never pays,
You heard from his legends he robbed a few banks in his younger and turbulent days;
He works at the fairgrounds, he’s starting the horse race, he shoots off his gun with a blast—
They use him for drawing a crowd with the tales of his troublesome, violent past.
He works at the theater, taking the tickets, he works in a Wild West show,
Reporters come ‘round with the same old damned questions, and answers their readers must know:
“Now, say there, old-timer, hey what about Jesse your brother—was he all that bad?
And what about Northfield, and what about Nashville, those narrow escapes that you had?”
Frank James ‘been living too long, and he’s living on memories…
He tells you a story in trade for a drink or a job,
Frank James ‘been living too long, and he’s living on memories….
And how many payrolls and how many trains did he rob?
Now he was eighteen when he joined up with Quantrill to fight in that sad Civil War,
They rode into Lawrence—a hundred and fifty civilians were slain, maybe more;
And after the War both the James’s and Youngers kept riding and robbing, so free—
But Frank James read Shakespeare and raised him a family and hid out in old Tennessee.
Now Jesse was wilder and Frank James was milder, the difference was easy to tell,
In St. Joe Missouri, his back to a friend, Jesse James took a bullet and fell,
And Frank James surrendered, he came in so quiet, they took him to trial for his crimes—
Now airplanes and automobiles tell the outlaw he doesn’t belong in these times.
Frank James ‘been living too long, and he’s living on memories…
He tells you a story for a drink or a job,
Frank James ‘been living too long, and he’s living on memories…
And how many payrolls and how many trains did he rob?
The old man signs autographs, telling young boys how a lifetime of crime never pays,
You heard from his legends he robbed a few banks in his younger and turbulent days;
He works at the fairgrounds, he’s starting the horse race, he shoots off his gun with a blast—
They use him for drawing a crowd with the tales of his troublesome, violent past.
He works at the theater, taking the tickets, he works in a Wild West show,
Reporters come ‘round with the same old damned questions, and answers their readers must know:
“Now, say there, old-timer, hey what about Jesse your brother—was he all that bad?
And what about Northfield, and what about Nashville, those narrow escapes that you had?”
Frank James ‘been living too long, and he’s living on memories…
He tells you a story in trade for a drink or a job,
Frank James ‘been living too long, and he’s living on memories….
And how many payrolls and how many trains did he rob?
Now he was eighteen when he joined up with Quantrill to fight in that sad Civil War,
They rode into Lawrence—a hundred and fifty civilians were slain, maybe more;
And after the War both the James’s and Youngers kept riding and robbing, so free—
But Frank James read Shakespeare and raised him a family and hid out in old Tennessee.
Now Jesse was wilder and Frank James was milder, the difference was easy to tell,
In St. Joe Missouri, his back to a friend, Jesse James took a bullet and fell,
And Frank James surrendered, he came in so quiet, they took him to trial for his crimes—
Now airplanes and automobiles tell the outlaw he doesn’t belong in these times.
Frank James ‘been living too long, and he’s living on memories…
He tells you a story for a drink or a job,
Frank James ‘been living too long, and he’s living on memories…
And how many payrolls and how many trains did he rob?
When doves on evenings, calm and still, call out a hollow tone,
They rouse a medley, old as time, so few have ever known.
The whispered lines of its refrains resound of yesterday,
In ancient tales and bygone trails that man cannot portray.
I’ve rode and worked along a trail throughout my many years.
I’ve heard the tales the sages tell of raging Longhorn steers,
Of soldiers marching single file or mounted days on end,
Of Indians, conquistadors and Rangers tracking men.
Mackenzie Trail is not well known for time obscures its fame,
But high regard is placed on it by those who know its name.
Its story’s scribed in black and white, its remnants etched in stone,
Its way was marked by sweat and blood, by grave and bleaching bone.
The broad frontier that it traversed had yet to be surveyed
And danger seemed to lie in wait at every turn and grade.
From Fort Clark Springs to forts on north, it led Mackenzie’s men
To risk their lives out on the trail, then brought them home again.
A mound lies near Mackenzie Lake, where horse thieves met despair,
For Rangers tracked their hurried trail and hung them then and there.
And near a barn not far away, in Live Oaks’ blissful shade,
The remnants of a camp still lie where soldiers often laid.
I’ve rode the trail and damned the rock that cost my horse a shoe.
I’ve crossed its draws that filled with rain and made my lips turn blue.
Its rugged paths have tested me and all who’ve come this way,
Yet, it remains my trail through time, my bond with yesterday.
Mackenzie Trail will long survive, a monument to will,
That I recall when I ride near on evenings, calm and still;
When doves exclaim in harmony, their lonely, hollow tone
And rouse the medley, old as time, so few have ever known.
She was a wily cigar chompin' gambler with the moniker of Poker Alice,
Renowned throughout the west for her skill in many a gamblin' palace!
Poker Alice had a good head for countin' and with her very cunnin' guile,
(Plus her beauty), she mesmerized her opponents, amassin' quite a pile!
Poker Alice worked in saloons across the west as a faro and poker dealer.
She worked in Creede, Colorado for Bob Ford, that notorious stealer!
Because of her pious rearin' as a girl, she refused to work on Sundays,
But she was back smokin' a two-dollar stogie and dealin' cards on Mondays!
She drifted to Deadwood, South Dakota, where her notoriety was well known,
And married a house painter named Tubbs who was a deft gambler on his own!
Later she established a brothel near Fort Mead Army Post with her ill-gotten gain.
The place was small and she needed funds to fix the 'house' on Pleasure Lane!
To expand and recruit 'soiled doves' from Kansas City she applied for a loan.
The banker scratched his skull sayin', "I dunno! That's a risk into the unknown!"
She convinced him notin' that The Grand Old Army had an encampment near,
And for the soldiers' bent for visitin' hog ranches, he had nothin' at all to fear!
Things didn't go well since she plumb forgot The Methodist Preachers' Convention,
Convened each and every year and she hadn't figured on that intervention!
Poker Alice's fame and notoriety followed her well beyond her wanin' years.
She died after a gall bladder operation with her 'house' payments in arrears!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 4 in Don Johnson's " Your Old Ballad Or Rhyme - Best Of All Time" Contest
July 2011
At the VFW Post in Buang, Philippines they know Macarthur
Staggering off then
Swaggering back onto
These Philippines Islands and the
Wail of Hirohito
Drowning in chorus with the headsman’s gush of
Bloodstained tears
Upon the occasion
Of Bataan
Remembered.
Then in repose off old Mactan, there still smiles
Lapu Lapu in his
Billion particles
Drifting a sea to the
Portuguese dance of
Forgotten melodies while
Sugarcane hills
Rise in symphony for Jose Rizal and the
Three hundred and some odd year smoldering hue of
Senior Legazpi
Clutching the
Sunrise brilliant over
Manila
Gleaming.
For the sand still whispers to the
Prodigal bow of
Yamashita’s gunboat and the
Mindanao lair of two old samurai
Forever glistening in the jungle deep as
God’s Perfection crescendos to the
Indefatigable,
Invincible,
Infinitely indelible thought that
Battle,
Broken in all man can make,
Fades
Forever.
So when does Empire reek
It’s savage
On the splendid meek
In lands long gotten over
Purchased souls as the
Old boys
Master around
Three dollar specials and the
Endless clink of San Miguels join
Hank Williams in an aging jukebox
Carefully laid for one night,
When all the glories of a thousand years are
Wonderfully recited in an
Afternoon when a
Sunglass wearing,
Corn-cob pipe-smoking,
“Look at me now” presence of a
Gangly man
Dashed ashore in the
Post mortem swelter of a
Gallant soldier’s
Passing?
September 2009 Jeff Troyer
In the old days of covered wagons, they were part of the Old West
Called them "Smithy's" back then, don't see them around much anymore
Swinging a big hammer down on an anvil, sparks would fly
Red hot iron from the burning coals of the forge, ready for the test
Shape a horseshoe or build a hinge for The General Store door
An old tradition that time has passed by
Ran the Livrery Stable in every town, a horse hotel for the night
Hay, oats and a drink of water, sometimes a cowboy would sleep there
Back breaking work for little pay, but a job done well
Next day shoe a horse or make a wagon wheel right
Most were strong and stout, would fight a grizzly bear
Work all day, sometimes when there was no Sun
Many joined the Army, when horse were the fleet
Several at every fort, shoeing for the Calvary
Because every soldier needed to ride and needed a mount
Fighting Indians or nailing iron on horse's feet
But those were their orders from the Army
After awhile it did not matter any, they would soon loose count
Times have changed, progress and new inventions are on the scene
And the old Blacksmith shops are gone, the forge and banging sound
The anvil, two pieces of hot molting welded to each other
This was the way it was told on The Silver Screen
But there are still some of them around
Changed their name, now they are called a Farrier
Form:
Now this is quiet a famous little stream, many untold story
The muddy waters run slow, but don't let it fool you when it comes alive
Divides the United States and Mexico, but it is just a line
Old Cottonwood trees and quick sand, some cross it for glory
A history of out laws crossed it fleeing into Mexico, some did not survive
Maybe holding up a bank or stealing from a gold mine
Long yesterdays ago, Pancho Villa and his raiders came
They robbed and killed, then head back to their sanctuary
Some though him to be a hero, to the poor he was a giver
He was an out law, that is where he got his fame
Even today there are those that will argue to the contrary
After he did his damage, he always crossed that river
Those muddy waters have seen a lot and still active
It has been a battle ground, many old cowboy songs sung
But like history, the old river changes too
Sometimes history is not very attractive
Those cottonwoods have seen many horse and cow thieves hung
Back in those days that what they had to do
The tides of the old river have changed. smugglers bring drugs to this side
No longer six shooters, it is machine guns now days
No more cowboys and Indians, now cocaine desperado thugs
Anything goes there, no such thing as pride
And the old river once again has had to change it's ways
It is all because of damn old drugs
Form:
The Star Spangled Banner gently undulates o'er this noble nation,
The symbol of freedom since this country's turbulent creation.
Though trampled upon and debased by many around the earth,
The flag has become a beacon of hope since the moment of its birth!
On June 14, 1777, The Congress adopted the flag of our nation,
With thirteen stars and stripes representing a new constellation!
Valiant patriots from that genesis down to this very day,
Paid the price upholding the flag and liberties we enjoy today.
O'er many decades, gallant soldiers clashed in awful strife,
In Civil War and upon foreign soil defending our way of life.
Midst the throes of battle and clouds of billowing smoke,
Eyes e'er on that tattered banner, their ranks never broke!
The grand old flag is proudly carried in small town parade,
And from courthouse spires it is prominently displayed.
In the local cemetery, tiny flags decorate a hero's grave,
To honor him for the sacrifices he so unselfishly gave.
The final tribute for which Old Glory is displayed,
Is to blanket the bier upon which honored heroes are laid.
The clarion notes of "Taps" wafts hauntingly through the air,
As faithful warriors are committed to His tender and loving care.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)