Cowboy Kind

Cowboy Kind

I like my poetry of the cowboy kind,
with two-step rhythms and jitterbug rhymes.
Of old felt hats and faded blue jeans,
boots and spurs and cowboy things.

Stories of horses that couldn't be rode
and tales so tall they shouldn't be told.
The stories of cows so evil and bad,
they had no fear of horse or man.

Yarns of varmints, coyotes, and wolves;
rustlers, and killers and thieves so bold.
The four-legged ones and two-legged kind;
would clean you out and rob you blind.

Sagas of winters, long and bleek,
with snow piling high as you sleep.
The smell of spring, fresh and sweet.
The cows to grass, all belly deep.

Hot summer sun and droughts heavy toll,
Indian summer and a pinch of Skoal.
Of pitchforks and stackers, runaways and teams.
The stories get bigger each telling it seems.

Of pickups and trailers and rodeo rides;
Bulls and broncs and losses of hide.
Chaps and saddles, and a piggin' string,
Longhorns, lariets and dallyin'.

Of sweethearts and broken hearts;
fifty years with the same old fart.
Stories of growin' pains and his iron will
Love sown and grown; a cabin on the hill.

My poetry is of the cowboy kind.
With two-step rhythms and jitterbug rhymes,
old felt hats and faded blue jeans,
boots and spurs and cowboy things.