STAN the TEXAS COWBOY POET



"COWBOYS and POETRY"
Written by Stan & His Son, Chris

You know...
The mixture of cowboys and poetry
Certainly does seem strange
Like mixin' "lace and cactus"...
Or "carpet"... on the "range"

It seems like "gold" and "leather"
Would never blend that well
That "rhymin' words" would tamper
With the stories that cowboys tell

But strangely enough... I've noticed
When a "tough" cowboy "recites"
His eyes get soft and friendly...
His hat's pushed back, just right

His arms are held wide open
As if to welcome you in
He rubs his neck and "fidgets"...
He laughs... and talks... and grins

This "rough, ol' codger" with boots on
Who barely leaves the ranch
Is really just a "good ol' boy"
Who's always loved to dance

And though he looks so "ornery"
He has a heart of gold
Just ask his friends... or kids... or wife
And once his story's told...

You'll see that he's a "diamond"...
Just only "in the rough"
His hands can rock his baby...
Or "break a bronc" that's tough

So you see then... it makes perfect sense
For a cowboy to "recite"...
His favorite poem to his little girl
As he tucks her in at night

And he'll sing a song... a verse or two...
To keep them "dogies" quiet
Camping on some cold, hard ground
He keeps them calm all night

And out there on the prairie
Where days are twelve months long
He likes to make a rhyme or two...
He likes to sing "camp songs"

And when the "round-up's" done at last
And he is finally home
He'll serenade his "sweetheart"...
When they are all alone

So as he works from dawn 'til dusk
To keep the cupboards full
Besides his horse... and saddle... and spurs...
He has another "tool"...

Poetry comes from a loving heart...
From deep inside a man...
Who loves his kids and loves his wife...
Who loves God and "His" land

A gift from God to soothe the soul
When times get really rough
And to pacify our greedy souls...
When we really have enough

So let me end my story...
By saying that I'm proud...
To be a "Cowboy Poet"
I'll say it "proud and LOUD!"

And thank the Lord in Heaven...
And take a final bow...
For sharing my poems with "you" tonight...
The "horses"... and the "cows"



"LAST NIGHT I WROTE A COWBOY POEM"
Written by Stan & Chris

Last night I wrote a cowboy poem
Guaranteed to bring me fame
But, you know, I forgot to write down my words
And they slipped right out of my brain

But I'm sure it must've been wonderful
For the tears swelled in my eyes
As I spoke about the cowboy life
And the stars up in the sky

So, if you hear a glorious story, sometimes
Listen closely for a sign
'Cause if it makes you feel the way I did
That poem is surely MINE!

And it would mean the world to me, dear friend
If a pen could soon be found
And on a piece of paper...
You would write that critter down

And mail it here to me, good friend
So that I can finally say...
The career of this ol' Cowboy Poet...
Is finally on the way!



"BULL-RIDER'S MOTHER"


She GRABBED my arm!
Her nails dug in!
Her boot kicked out...
And hit my SHIN!

She let out a SCREAM!
LOUD and clear
I thought she'd busted...
My "good" right ear

She jumped straight UP!
She pulled me, too
Lord... I didn't know what to do

I pulled and tugged
She wouldn't let go
I moaned and groaned
She didn't even know

Folks, there's only one thing...
I want you to know...

If the sun still shines...
And the moon still glows...
If horses buck...
And rivers flow...
I ain't never agin' sitting...
By a Bull-Rider's Mother...
At a Junior Rodeo!



"SPARKY"

They called my Granpa, "Sparky"
"Cause of the tobacco that he chewed
They also called him, "Dead-Eye"
Because his aim was true

They say that he could spit twenty feet...
And hit a snake in the eye
Spin himself around...
And hit a buzzard "on the fly"

While hunkered down and whittling
He'd put his mark on the wall
Yet, still have enough left over
To hit a horse in the stall

While him and his cronies was telling...
Stories... long, but true
If us, kids, didn't believe them
We'd know just what to do

We'd push 'em over and run like heck
Hoping they would swallow their "cut"
But Granpa always saved enough
To mark us on the... you know what...

I swear he could hold enough in his mouth...
To fill a coffee cup

Well, people say tobacco will kill you
And surely ruin your health
Sparky worked to seventy-three...
It just cut into his wealth

Four plugs a day at five cents a piece
Which was the going rate
'Til taxes and inflation made an expense
That was really hard to take

But Granpa said him chewing tobacco
Did no one, in this life, hurt...
GRANMA said, "That just ain't so..."
I have to wash your shirts!"



"KIDS" (In my foot steps)

I took my family camping
And while sitting 'round the fire
Me and my wife decided to retire

We left our kids sitting there
Telling tales and talking grand
About what they would be when grown up to be a man

One said I'll be a doctor...
And keep all of you well
Another, I'll be a lawyer...
And keep you out of jail
Another, I'll be a pilot...
And fly around the world
One said, I'll be a dancer...
And give the girls a whirl

'Bout that time I heard another voice say...
I'm going to be like my Dad!
Rough and tough... lean and mean...
And ride then horses bad
I'll ride them bulls... I'll ride, rope, and brand...
And in this life, just like my Dad...
I'm gonna make my stand!

Well... pride made my chest swell up...
But my head began to whirl...
The kid doing all the talking was...
My one... and only... GIRL!



Here's a poem ABOUT my brother:

"DIRT" the COWBOY POET

Well, they call him "Dirt"
That's a terrible name
But he doesn't seem to wear it with any shame

But it's not because of his "hygiene"
Of this, I'm sure
'Cause he bathes most every Saturday night
Down at the Cattle Feed Store
(Whether he needs it or not)

His kids thinks he's OLD AS DIRT...
And his friends thinks he's MEAN AS DIRT...
And his wife thinks he's CHEAPER THAN DIRT...
And if you ask him, he'll tell you plainly...
"Yep, I WORK DIRT CHEAP, too!"

Here's a poem BY my brother:


"THE TENDERFOOT"

Store-bought shoes...
With nice, round toes
Where he came from
Nobody knows

He's the "dude with the funny-lookin' clothes"...
He's the... Tenderfoot

He's ill-at-ease when he's in our place
Not a lick of confidence on his face
Out West he came... his dreams to chase
He's a Tenderfoot

Without a thought of turning back
He stands in awe of all our "tac"
But he just can't seem to get the knack...
He's the Tenderfoot

The sun quickly teaches him to wear a hat...
The cactus done taught him where he SHOULDA sat...
He'll find out fast that a cougar ain't just a "cat"...
He's a Tenderfoot

Someday he may stand tall in our boots...
He may learn to ride... and rope... and shoot...
And when he does... you can bet his boots...
He'll give 'em... heck... those Tenderfoots

WORDS BY BEN "DIRT"

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