Alone on the prairie, time will gently slip,
‘til minutes and hours start to lose their grip.
Can’t measure the day by a clock’s turning hand,
but by the sun, the stars, the clouds, and the land.
By how long it takes for a bee to float by,
or a hawk to soar across the open sky.
A black thunderstorm to roll over the plain,
or a groundhog to pop up after a rain.
By watchin’ a deer as it bounces away,
or seeing two eagles in the sky at play.
A bison to graze, or an elk take a drink,
seems the prairie can change as quick as a wink.
But you'll soon realize the land didn’t change,
still a sea of green 'cross a wide open range.
Speckled with wildflowers that dance with the breeze,
to the tune of wind blowing through Aspen leaves.
Yeah, on the prairie you can lose track of time,
but the Pronghorn and Sage Grouse don't seem to mind.
Robins and meadowlarks will sing you their tune,
while you watch as the sun turns into the moon.
Categories:
pronghorn, poems, poetry, time, work,
Form: Cowboy Poetry
Bee Pronghorn
Ole Herb wasn't feeling nifty,
his pronger wasnt lifting,
50 years it worked, but now was nothing left,
into overalls he climbed,
protected every part in mind,
cep his donger, which hung sadly unimpressed,
the beehive was a buzzing,
with every bee and its cousin,
getting flopped and stirred to frightful excess,
they homed upon his donger,
with the blood flow getting stronger,
as agony gave him such a sweet caress,
so he sprung up off the ground,
stirred like an eager hound,
and charged into the bedroom, saying yes,
but the lady there no longer,
had no use for his donger?
So bloody oath he had to take a Bex.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wI-RsXblNFM
Don Johnson
Categories:
pronghorn, adventure,
Form: Ballad