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The Cowboys Christmas Dance

Winter is here and it aint so nice tendin'
   the feeders and choppin' ice.
Nasty weather to stir about.
   Cold in the morning's a gittin' out.
Puts a sting in your ears and nose;
   gotta watch out or you'll freeze yore toes.
Blowin' your breath on a frosty bit.
   Makes you feel like you want to quit.

You like one part of it any way,
   That's when you git yore Christmas day.
Plenty of feed and a right good chance
   to shake yore feet at a country dance.
Fiddles a playin' jest watch 'em go.
   "Aleman left an' doce do!"
Don't keer none for the cold and storms.
   Dancin' around you soon git warm.

Folks all in from the hills and flats.
   Ears tied up onder their hats.
Tough on the horses they drove and rode
   shiverin' there with their backs all bowed.
It's the only time that folks has to spare
   so the hosses had got to stand their share.
You turn 'em out when they git rode down
   but you got to keep workin' the year around.

Winter time but it aint so bad.
   When it comes around yore sorter glad.
Even though it's nasty weather
   folks has a chance to git together.
And plenty of folks that was half way mad
   found out their neighbors was not as bad
Yes lots of trouble is checked in advance
   by a sociable crowd at a Christmas dance.

Reprinted with permission from Classic Rhymes by Bruce Kiskaddon, Cowboy Miner Productions, 1998


Read more classic poetry from Bruce Kiskaddon here.



The Perfect Tree

Well, when it comes to Christmas,
I'm a Bah-humbug kinda guy.
This is contrary to my wife
Who'd start Christmas in July.

I've surely tried to do my best
But the spirit just won't last.
Like Ole' Scrooge I'll be seein'
The ghosts from my Christmas past.

I've tried to figure this out,
The answer I've tried to reflect.
Now, to the cause I've got a clue,
It was huntin' Christmas trees I expect.

Oh it starts out innocent enough,
Buyin' those Christmas tree tags.
Husbands become saw and axe murderers,
Wives become expert tree judgin' bags.

Plowin' snow thru country high and low,
Where pines, firs, and spruce flourished.
Frustration growin', your patience starvin',
The trees you find look malnourished.

Now you just can't go to cuttin'
The first good one you see.
You've got to hunt that special one,
That mystical, mythical perfect tree.  

See that one way over there!
Nope too small, too tall, too thin.
Woman -- just pick a damn tree
And let commit enviro-mental sin!

For years we wrecked our relationship,
Tore up good four wheel drives.
Then one day it was over,
The perfect tree came into our lives. 

It was tall, it was full,
Needles stayed on till we got home.
It spruced up my holiday salvation.
No more December nights sleepin' alone.

No need to go huntin' trees anymore,
Our marriage no longer's at stake.
Our Christmas joy is real,
And the perfect tree ... it's a fake.  

1995, Chuck Larsen, from You're Gonna Get a Kick Outta This!
 This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


You can read more of Chuck Larsen's poetry here


A Christmas Poem

Christmas is a-comin' soon!
Pardner, ain't ya seen?
The decorations showed up
In the stores on Halloween!

The papers just plumb fulla ads;
Some days it's three feet thick!
That's good-we got a woodstove,
'N' we're short on kindlin' sticks.

The kids all hope that Santa
Brings 'em ever'thing they chose;
"I want a Nintendo!"
"Please don't bring me any clothes!"

The Sally Army's out in force,
A-tunin' up their band;
I always drop a dollar,
'Cause they once gave me a hand.

There's some who say we've lost the track,
'N' don't know rhyme or reason,
That all this hooraw overlooks
The spirit of the season.

They point 'n' say I don't believe,
'Cause in church ya'll never find me;
But I don't need no hymns, or prayers,
Or crosses to remind me.

This year, I think I'll try
What one ole cowpoke used to do;
I'll saddle up, 'n' leave a note:
"Back in an hour, or two."

I'll ride west outta Reno,
A-followin' the river,
'Way up into the mountains
Where the air's so cold it shimmers.

Far away from stores 'n' crowds,
Where the only single sound
Will be my pony's muffled steps
Through the snow upon the ground.

'N' when I reach the perfect spot
(I'll know it when I'm there),
I'll doff my hat, 'n' feel
The icy wind blow through my hair.

I'll find the brightest star that night,
Gaze up at it, 'n' say,
"Happy Birthday, Boss,"
'N' then I'll softly ride away.

1994 Rip-Snortin' Press
 This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

You can read more of Charley Sierra's poetry here.

Featured in "The Big Roundup," an anthology of the best of


Visit our Art Spur project for our poems 
inspired by Charlie Russell's "Seein' Santa."

"Seein' Santa" 
by Charles M. Russell, 1910
C. M. Russell Museum
Great Falls, Montana
reproduced with permission




Page Six



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