Christmas Shopping in Cactus Center
Women's scarce in Cactus Center, and there ain't no bargain stores
Fer to start them Monday rushes that break down the stoutest doors;
But we had some Christmas shoppin' that the town ain't over yet,
Jest because of one small woman and a drug store toilet set.
She was Cactus Center's teacher, and she had n't left the stage
'Fore she had the boys plum locoed -- and I don't bar youth nor age;
She was cute and smart and pretty, and she might 'a' been here yet
If it had n't been fer Dawson and his drug store toilet set.
It was old and scratched and speckled, for 't was in his case for years,
But ol' Dawson, sharp and clever, put a whisper in our ears--
'Lowed he'd sell that set at auction, and he says: "Now, boys, you bet
This 'ill make a hit with Teacher - this here swell new toilet set."
Well the biddin' stated lively, and it got to gettin' hot,
For every mind in Cactus on that single thing was sot;
Purty soon I'd staked my saddle, worth two hundred dollars net,
Jest to own fer one short second that blamed drug store toilet set.
It was then began the shootin' -- no one seems to know jest how --
And 't was lack of ammunition that at last broke up the row;
And thirteen of us was hurted, but the worst blow that we met
Was in findin' that some bullets had gone through that toilet set.
But we plugged the punctures in it, and we plugged the wounded, too,
And agreed we'd arbitrate it, and the bunch 'd see it through;
So we sent a gift committee, but they came back sorer yet --
Fer the teacher'd fluttered Eastward -- so we've got that that toilet set.
by Arthur Chapman
You can read more of Arthur Chapman's classic poetry here at the BAR-D.
Santa Comes Calvin'
I rode off the ride on my pony
At the start of a cold winter night
I had trouble a keepin' old Roany
Huntin' cows that had calved in the white.
The north wind had blowed through my carcass.
As only a true northern can.
The frost on our ears 'spired to mark us,
With a "crop" known to horse more than man.
My hoss was sure pleased to turn homeward
And I slipped off his gear at the farm.
The oats he turned busily inward,
While I packed my light on my arm.
In the comfort and heat of my cabin,
With my head now beginning to nod
And the pleasant, sweet dreams that I'm havin'
Are as warm as talkin' to God.
I know not how long I had drifted
'Neath the gold of the glimmering moon;
From the depth of my trance I was lifted,
By a din like the song of the spoon.
'Twas out of my bunk in a fervor,
Than peek through the frost on the pane;
In the bloody red garb of a hunter,
Driving a team down my lane.
A chubby old goat with white whiskers,
And packin' a bag on his back;
Dressed as the red lips of sisters,
His sleigh hardly leavin' a track.
The ire in my heart getting bigger,
I lifted my gun from its rack,
The carefully squeezing the trigger,
I aimed where his pants show some slack.
The line of my fire I directed,
By pointing "Old Bess" just so so.
At the moment my buckshot connected
He'd ripped off a might HO HO!
His pitch, in an instant, got higher,
Then turned to a shriek in the night.
The sleigh, then, became a high flyer
And showing much haste in its flight.
While I turned then back to my blanket,
Proceeding to finish my Zees,
As snug as a bee in a bonnet,
And dreaming sweet dreams as I please.
© Bob Schild, from Spur Tracks & Buffalo Chips
Read more of Honored Guest Bob Schild's poetry here.
Well it's that time of year again
(my god the year went fast)
You seen the price of firewood?
it's gettin' high as gas
An' how about this drought we got?
We're outta grass and hay
My cows all look like xylophones
four more died today
My wife ran off -- the kids don't speak
my pickup's obsolete
Asked the banker, "Check my balance?"
an' he pushed me off my feet
My dog drinks from the toilet now
my Mom sez, "'Cause it's cold."
How the hell does she know that?
(my god she's gettin' old)
Pollution's bad, it's worse each year
dadgum my ornery hide
Put air in my pickup tires
an' several of 'em died
But that ain't why I wrote to you --
to just whine 'bout my career
I wanna wish the best to You and Yours --
with lotsa Christmas Cheer
© 2002, Pat Richardson
Pat says "It's an ol' Christmas tradition of mine to insult all my friends on this and any other occasion. They love it!! Those phone calls from their lawyers are just in jest (I hope).
Read more of Honored Guest Pat Richardson's poetry here.
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