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MARTY CAMPBELL
Pendleton, Oregon
About Marty Campbell

 

 

 

A Real Moustache

Well, I had me another birthday, while back.
   Gettin' older, still makin' no cash.
But I'll tell you, the only regret that I have's
   Lack of hair 'nough to grow a moustache.

You know, just like old' Wilford Brimley.
   Something to warm my top lip
And catch all the oatmeal I sell on the tube
   And cool off the coffee I sip.

To make me America's Grandpa
   (Though I'm still just as spry as a lamb)
Whether draggin' a calf or powderin' up
   For a role starring opposite--Sam.

Yeah, you know, I'm talkin' Connagher
   With the black eye that he bravely earned
And the hair on his lip is as thick as the hide
   On the dogies his enemies turned.

Or I'd even take one just like Baxie's,
   Though I'd have to trade that one for hair.
But what's wrong with that?  There's usually a hat
   Sitting idly a way upon there

Where I got me a full head most years 'round,
   Though it's starting to sift in some grey.
But I say, cut it off!  Yeah, give it a toss
   If I could look like ol' Waddie, today.

And I might even go for the waxin'
   Though I think it's a little bit priss.
But I know that my wife'd surely agree
   That it'd soften the blow of my kiss.

But my lip, it's as bald as an eagle.
   Hair grows, but more like a cat
That's been naired by an ornery, young buckaroo sprout
   With the wheels turning under his hat.

And these birthdays bring unwelcome presents
   Like this hair growing out of my ears.
And the way that my eyebrows are joined at the hip
   From my daughter is bringing some sneers.

But you know, every cloud has its lining,
   And mine comes from this hair in my snout.
I'll just let it grow, comb it to and then fro,
   Heck, no one will figger it out!

2006, Marty Campbell
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Marty told us: I had a tragic event happen in my life a couple of winters ago--I turned 30.  I know that's not too tragic for most people, and the worst part was not the fact that I was getting older.  It was the simple fact that in all my thirty years, I had never been able to grow a good moustache.  I didn't want some pencil thin jobby; I wanted a good one--you know, like I had a dead animal on my lip.  Anyhow, I had never been able to grow a good one, so I lamented that fact by writing that poem.


About Marty Campbell:

Marty Campbell has worked cows horseback on the desert, and he's chased them through Central Washington coulees on a four wheeler. He's got friends who are salt-of-the-earth buckaroos, and he's good pals with five-buckle and scotch cap, corn circle cowboys. He's ridden broncs from Texas to Canada, and he's hit the dirt in most of those places, as well.  His poems and his stories are about real-life, hard-working, cowboys and cowwomen who live in a world where there are espresso shacks in the feed store parking lot. He and his wife Mandi have a small ranch where they run kids, horses, and corriente cattle just outside of Pendleton, Oregon.  He ain't afraid to shoe his own horse, but man he hates to have to.

Marty entertains audiences all over the country and loves just being around good old-fashioned people who aren't afraid to get a little poop on their dress shoes.

 

 

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