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About Floyd Beard
Floyd Beard's web site



The Buyers' Type

I’m standing here pushing up a steer,
as I load the truck today.
Looks thick and fat from where I’m at,
as I send him on his way.

Yell out your bid, or wave your lid
as you catch the auctioneer’s cry.
Run up his price, you know he’s nice,
let ‘em know you want to buy!

You hope each spring that your cow’ll bring,
a calf of the buyers’ type.
So that next fall at the auctioneer ball,
they’ll all want to take a swipe.

I ain’t for gore but a bidder’s war,
‘tween buyers is mighty fine.
When they’ll bid once more, o’er the buyer next door,
and the calves they’re wantin’s mine.

Then I go inside and I strut with pride,
as I settle at the cashier’s till.
Weight tickets come down and they’re “times’ed” per pound,
and the gold my pockets fill.

What…I take the shrink? Is that fair ya’ think?
The commission is then pulled out!
And a feed cost’s there for two days of care,
boy that yardage is kinda’ stout.

Well they whittled my check, but then what the heck,
better get what I got to the bank.
Get your grubby mitts off my money you nits,
my ship came in and purt near sank.

Take out pasture cost and the ones I lost,
I’m barely gonna cover my bills.
Still owe the vet charge, and the feed bill’s large,
now I’m cuttin’ out most of my thrills.

Well the trucker’s paid and the mortgage made,
and repair bills paid at the shop.
Fuel’s laid in, mill’s pumping again,
propane sure took a big hop.

Well I’ll fix the roof next year and maybe see clear,
to get by on the tires I’ve got.
And I’ll burn more wood, and maybe I could,
patch the tank where it’s got the rot.

I’ll watch what I buy and if prices stay high,
I’ll get by for another year.
I’ll just be brave, use the heifers I save,
and try to not choke on fear.

If I squeeze real tight, I’ll make it alright,
and there ain’t no use to gripe.
But if I got any pull, I pray that ol’ bull,
will throw calves of the buyers’ type

© 2014, Floyd Beard
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Floyd comments: My inspiration for this poem comes from the yearly cycle of raising calves and hoping that you get the best price…then the reality that the sale of those calves will cover expenses for the next year.



Papa Noel Visits Mi Casa

Was la noche before Christmas, and all cross the ranch,
No animals was stirring, owl sleep on his branch.
Mi wool socks was laid by the kiva all right,
Possibly Papa Noel find them ‘dere later that night.
Me ninos were snuggled all warm in their beds,
Dreams of sopapillas y tamales danced in their heads.
Mamacita in her flannel, long johns got my nod,
We were just about dreaming of Feliz Navidad.

When out in the corral all the cows they start mooing,
The dogs is all barking, a real racket is brewing.
This racket it scared me, I jump out of bed,
I trip on the house cat and I fall on mi head.
I open the door jus’ a little, and I barley peek thru’,
I think maybe it's a witch or Diablo, or a coyote or two.
The moon is so big and so bright in the sky,
I can see all the barnyard; it’s no wonder why.

Then I think my eyes have gone bad, or maybe full of the wools,
I see a little carterra pulled by eight corriente bulls!
El camionero he drive them so fast and so well,
I knew muy pronto he was Papa Noel.
Muy rapido like jaguars these toros they came,
And he hollered and yelled and called out their name.
Ándele Alberto, Ponchito, Diego, Miguel,
You Vicente, Francisco, Pablo y Manuel.

Arriba, Get up there or I’ll whip you I warn,
Over corral, over haystack, get up on the barn!
Estes flew up in the air like a storm blew them there,
They snorted and pulled the carterra with no care.
Up past the shed roof, to the barn roof they flew,
Up went the carterra y toys and Papa Noel too.
Then in a moment on the barn tin I hear every hoof,
And I think one left a cow pie up there on the roof.

As I closed the door and hid behind the wood bin,
I heard a crash through the attic, and Papa Noel tumbled in.
He had on a serape and a sombrero grand,
And his clothes were all trail worn and covered with sand.
He had a big pack made from the cowhide,
It was jammed full of toys and presents inside.
He looked like a traveler, yet friendly somehow,
And he moved smooth as a dancer before taking a bow.

His handle bar moustache almost covered his smile,
And his black whiskers were cut machismo style.
He wore leather wrist cuffs above soft calfskin gloves,
And the conchos on his leggings were of crosses and doves.
He seemed very strong, an hombre for sure,
Yet he smiled and had an ease so soft and demure.
He was an hombre, yet jolly, and on his behalf,
I tell you, in spite of myself, he made me laugh.

He looks round mi casa at our stockings and tree,
I know we are amigos, this hombre and me.
He don’ say nothing, just opens his pack wide,
And fills all of our stockings with things from inside.
Then he looks at the attic where he came in before,
He just shrug his shoulders, and he walk’ out the door.
Then he jumps up on the barn, like child’s play that part,
An’ he scratches his bulls and he hops in his cart.

He says when they flew off, as his bulls he did prod,
Buenos Noches mis Amigos, Y Feliz Navidad!

© 2013, Floyd Beard
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.




About Floyd Beard:

Floyd Beard and his wife Valerie run a cow calf operation on the High Plains of Colorado near Punkin Center. Floyd began writing poetry while out working his cattle in the late 1970s. Jotting down his experiences and observations while in the saddle, he “smithed” these thoughts into his stories and songs. Floyd was named the 2015 "Cowboy Poetry Idol" at the Columbia River Cowboy Gathering and Music Festival and he also won the Colorado State Fair Cowboy Shoot-Out in 2006. He has presented as far away as Stony Plains, Alberta, Canada, and is the current President of the WMA Colorado Chapter. Floyd’s stories, which he has recited and presented for 30 years, are interwoven with his western code of high ethics, integrity and sprinkled richly with humor. His philosophy is simple: “Life is a journey not a destination, and is best viewed from atop a good horse.”






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