Life as a cowboy was hard, both mentally and physically. This is dedicated to all cowboys, both real and pretend.
Killed by a cowardly hand,
They told me of a new railhead
And a drive along the Rio Grande,
And someone read to me
Steamboat times on the Mississippi;
Well, folks, as you can tell
I'm doing really well,
Working for the T-bone Ranch
Where I stand a real chance
Of making foreman, or leading drover,
A leap from green grass to clever clover,
And all this without the three Rs,
Just five years of military bars,
Bugle and drum, advance, retreat,
And a medal for my heroic feat,
The medal, Mother, is under my bunk,
Carefully wrapped in a pelt of skunk,
And my fellows are as diverse
As the stars in the Universe,
I'm sharing quarters with renegades
And boys who haven't seen razor blades,
With Bluebelly dregs
And Johnny rebs,
All here to worry capricious cattle
Rather than hear their own death rattle,
And we all leave in the morning
Before the sun rises yawning,
Pushing a herd of Texas Longhorn
To a market in the victorious North
Where they eat beef for what it's worth.
Chris Fernie, 2006
Poetry by Chris Fernie
Read 485 times
Written on 2006-10-08 at 23:35
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The Cowboy's Love Letter Home
They told me Lincoln was dead,Killed by a cowardly hand,
They told me of a new railhead
And a drive along the Rio Grande,
And someone read to me
Steamboat times on the Mississippi;
Well, folks, as you can tell
I'm doing really well,
Working for the T-bone Ranch
Where I stand a real chance
Of making foreman, or leading drover,
A leap from green grass to clever clover,
And all this without the three Rs,
Just five years of military bars,
Bugle and drum, advance, retreat,
And a medal for my heroic feat,
The medal, Mother, is under my bunk,
Carefully wrapped in a pelt of skunk,
And my fellows are as diverse
As the stars in the Universe,
I'm sharing quarters with renegades
And boys who haven't seen razor blades,
With Bluebelly dregs
And Johnny rebs,
All here to worry capricious cattle
Rather than hear their own death rattle,
And we all leave in the morning
Before the sun rises yawning,
Pushing a herd of Texas Longhorn
To a market in the victorious North
Where they eat beef for what it's worth.
Chris Fernie, 2006
Poetry by Chris Fernie
Read 485 times
Written on 2006-10-08 at 23:35
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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