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Fort Worth, Texas

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The Cowboy's Lament 

I always thought a cowboy's life was happy and carefree,
  So full of pure adventure and devoid of misery,
Yeah, I imagined roundups and them long trail drives and such,
  And all the fights for water rights and how that meant so much,

Shucks, I could be a cowboy and I think I'd do just fine,
  Ridin' and aropin'; and a drinkin' cactus wine,
The sky would by my ceilin' and the dirt would be my floor,
  I'd sleep all night in pure starlight and wake up wantin' more,

Course, no one ever told me 'bout a three month cattle drive,
  An how in britches wore twelve weeks them ticks and chiggers thrive,
An no one ever mentioned how bad cold beans taste at dawn,
  Or gritty sounds from coffee grounds that yore a chompin' on,

Heck, cowboys never talk about them 20 hour days,
  Or carin' for that pony or them cattle's  stubborn ways,
An ain't nobody brought up 'bout that hot September sun,
  Or coffee breaks or rattlesnakes or never havin' fun,

Shoot pard, I guess I'm gonna pass on all that cowboy stuff,
  Just thinkin' bout that lonely trail has made me tired enough,
I'll prob'bly find another line of work that ain't so strange,
  An warble "Home Sweet Home" while others sing "Home On The Range."

Tom Pollard
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


The Great Race

About a hundred years ago in a wild west Texas town,
  Two cowpokes made a wager and they laid some money down,
One had proudly boasted how his pony was the best,
  And what came next tells why the west was called the "Wild, Wild, West,

They settled on a time and they agreed upon the course,
  To race this cowboy's pony and the fabulous Iron Horse,
Everybody came to see and gossiped cross the plain,
  How could that little pony run as fast as that great train?

Now when that race day came to be the cowboy felt alone,
  Though many people lined the track to cheer his pony home,
That huge Iron Horse was spittin' fire, the fireman built up steam,
  The starter's pistol raised on high, a nightmare or a dream,

"It's just about four hundred yards,"  he mumbled soft and slow,
  The starter's gun fired, pierced the hush, he whispered, "Go boy, Go!"
The little pony scratched the ground, the cowboy gave him rein,
  And you could see the wheels a-spinnin' on that screachin' train,

Not a whipstroke ever touched that little pony's hide,
  That cowboy knew that he was in for one fantastic ride,
And they had quite a lead at first and melded into one,
  With just two hundred yards to go they thought the race was won,

But then the lead began to fade, the pony came to tire,
  The Great Iron Horse came surging on, it's belly belchin' fire,
And yet, the faster that train ran, the more that pony strained,
  As they stayed even, neck and neck, that pony and that train,

People argue yet today, how fast that race was run,
  And marvel still just how they braved that hot west Texas sun,
And many, they recall with pride, and some brag, too, of course,
  Just how that cowboy's pony raced, and beat the Great Iron Horse.

Tom Pollard
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Ahm a Cowboy 
(Thu & Thu)

  Ah sure member ever roundup, scorchin' hair and burnin' hide,
An na bellers of vem doggies an na way they stare wildeyed,
  Na summer fightin' skeeters and ascratchin' ticks and lice,
I na winter time when toes stay cold an fingers feel like ice,
  Yeah, ah sure do missa glamour anna puredee cowboy fun,
When ahm tryin' jus to breathe when dust is bottin' out the sun,

Course, you don't know tha pleasure when yore ridin' drag ma friend,
  An nem stickin', sweatin' longhorns face sa breeze while yore downwind,
An just followin' nat herd is worsen hell could ever be,
  Ya nostrils burn, ya eyes stay sore, ya gotta squint to see...Shoot,

Ah woudn' trade fer nothin' all my carefree cowboy ways,
  An memries of em sights and smells of downright cowboy days,
Ah'll freeze in winter, sweat in summer, smell bad, thats fer true,
  Cause deep down ahm a cowboy...In an out an thu an thu.

Tom Pollard
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.




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