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Just dally your tongue, Mr. City Dude, I've had all I can take.
Your idees on this cowboy crap are a misconceived mistake.
Now you're a guest, you've paid your fee for us to haul your freight,
But there's no hobbles holdin' me from settin' the record straight.
It's summertime, we're pullin' slack, and for some extra green
The boss has got us wranglin' dudes who need a change of scene.
You claim the rat race got you down; you're gettin' out of touch
With clean, fresh air and open space and good, hard work and such.
We've got all that, but it ain't half, nor even just a speck
Of what a puncher puts up with to earn a starvin' check.
There's waddies that would skin me if I ruin their reputations,
But I can't abide this falsified brand of eddication.
I reckon I've my Pa to thank for where I am today.
When he palmed my diapered butt and set me on the dapple gray,
That broom-tail bogged his head and bucked right through the garden fence.
I landed on my punkin-head and broke my common sense.
So I've busted colts and busted bones and shed a million tears.
I've follered cows and Lord knows how I've lived these forty years.
'Cause my frame looks like a junkyard on the doctor's X-ray screen,
With them pins and plates and screws and bolts and wires in between.
My knees are popped, my legs are bowed, my headlights outta line.
There's a hundred broncs in dog-food cans that waltzed upon my spine.
I don't even own my teeth, the bank just lets me use 'em,
And they swear they'll repossess if I continue to abuse 'em.
My heritage is varied, I'm an ethnic, mongrel mix,
Like this Roman nose and Russian fingers I've so often fixed.
My nose been broke so often, it just roams from here to there,
While these fingers I have dallied off must rush for doctor's care.
I've got smoker's lung and dipper's tongue, tobacco is the curse;
My coronary arteries are hard and gettin' worse.
I've drunk cowboy coffee 'til my kidneys water black and blue;
My liver's long been pickled in an alcoholic stew.
My hair's gone with the dodo bird, from wrecks and work and worry.
I've been asked to donate my remains and "Please, sir, could you hurry?"
For with parts that I have lost and had replaced a time or two,
I don't know if anything that's left belongs to me or you!
While you sit there on your pump-tailed pony, chokin' on the horn,
I'm screwed down in the deep seat, wishin' I was never born.
'Cause this bronc has backed his ears, and he's just waitin' for the chance
To send me south where sinners learn to do the hot-foot dance.
They ain't all sweet and gentle, and they ain't all plump and pretty.
Some are wild and some are rank and some are downright . . . shameful.
There's cinchies, locoes, runaways, stumblers, snipes and nippers.
This one's named AT&T; he'll reach out and touch you from your lip down to your zipper.
They're plumb delightful critters, I don't trust 'em for a minute.
Name your favorite jackpot and I'll wager I've been in it.
They'll rear and fall or run away while you're just hangin' on,
And the calf you caught is skippin' like a rock across a pond!
They've rolled my favorite saddles 'til the trees were broke and bent,
And learned me lots of nifty prayers when latigos have went.
Oh, he'll buck right through the riggin's 'til the kack is on his head,
Then drive your skull into the dirt and leave you there for dead.
They've improved my world-perception; I see things in different ways,
Like upside-down and 'round and 'round and sometimes through a haze.
I count myself well-traveled and my language skills are rare,
For I've cussed in several foreign tongues while sailin' through the air!
But a horse is not the only nuisance this cowhand could name.
There's another critter honored in the Puncher's Hall of Shame.
If Noah built a boat today I pray he'd not allow
That aggravatin', ruminatin' bovine known as Cow.
They come in every shape and size, exotic breeds but standard genders,
And the only way I'll like the brutes is on my plate and tender.
As long as they're a-walkin' they ain't nothin' more than grief.
I'll vote for all them varmints to be born as hangin' beef!
I've always been some puzzled, I'll confess I'm at a loss
As I ponder on this critter from my throne upon a hoss.
I've heard about them dinosaurs with brains just like a pea;
A cow has got a brain, for shore, but musta got it free!
'Cause I've never seen a one that worked, as near as I can figger,
Or them purebred boys ignore the smarts and breed the dummies bigger.
That slack-jawed, vacant gaze is seen in other places too,
Like on college kids in lecture halls and churches in the pews.
The bulls will waller fences down or fight a pickup truck,
And the calves will drown in waterholes just knee-deep to a duck.
The cows will know it's time to starve when you've paid off the bank,
And I wonder 'bout a brute that drinks while pissin' in the tank!
There's leppy calves whose mamas wouldn't take 'em on a bet,
So he'll move into your kitchen and become a family pet.
You figger you can beef 'im when he's fat to earn his keep,
But your wife will chase you to the barn and tell you where to sleep.
I'll swear them bulls are God's own curse for sinners gone astray,
'Cause fightin', sullin' and breakin' things is how they eam their pay.
And they'll breed up almost anything that Nature will allow,
Everything that walks or not, except, of course, a cow!
I've pulled cows out of septic tanks and cattle-guards and bogs,
And chased 'em out of garden plots with curses, rocks and dogs.
She won't stay where she oughta be, but someplace else instead,
And she couldn't find the right gate if you tied it on her head!
I reckon all she's meant to do is find a place to die,
And I've spent my life preventin' that, although I wonder why.
'Cause forty years of chasin' 'em has finally made me see
That the only critter dumber than a cow, I guess, is me!
Mr. Dude, you maybe think I'm blind, I've overlooked the treasures,
'Cause you've read a hundred books that tell about a puncher's pleasures.
But misery and pleasure are just second kissin' cousins;
We deal 'em by the six-pack here, or by the baker's dozen.
Mother Nature's mighty lovely by the cracklin' fireplace glow,
But she's a howlin', haggard witch when you're a-horseback in the snow.
'Cause you're kinda hypothermied from your Stetson to your toes,
And you figger punchin' cows is just for fools and Eskimos.
'Cause them icicle stalactites pull your mustache corners down,
And your mug gets kinda droopy 'til it's frozen in a frown.
And the air has grown so sharp and cold you hear the crack of dawn,
But you're afraid to touch your ears and maybe find 'em gone.
You can't work your zipper 'cause your fingers won't perform,
So you pee right down your leg and smile, because at least it's warm.
Heck, it won't do no good to cuss, because the words just freeze,
And you can't even hear 'em 'til the leaves are on the trees.
The wind will blow in springtime 'til your eyeballs turn around,
And your shadow travels eighty feet before it hits the ground.
And cows' and horses' body functions lack finesse and grace;
They 're jet-propelled and end up in your lap and on your face!
Dirt will infiltrate your nostrils and it penetrates your pores;
It's back behind your eyeballs and it's chafin' in your drawers.
But a puncher can't be bothered by a little filth and germs,
Though I really hate them birds that light to peck for grubs and worms!
The heat and thirst in summertime can drive a man to ground;
Sometimes the trees and bushes have to chase the dogs around.
But a cowboy's obligated to ignore the drought and scorch,
While the boss is sippin' tonics on his air-conditioned porch.
I've drunk that gyppy water 'til my guts were petrified,
Then rode upstream to find just where an oozy cow had died.
But a feller can't be choicey when it's hot enough to fry;
I might die from plague or green gomboo, but I'll be wet, not dry.
There's a heap of inconveniences that make this life a treat,
If your idea of fun is walkin' hot coals with your feet.
A gent has et some locoweed, or he's just plumb demented
If he aims to tell you punchin' cows is what makes him contented.
If you're miles away from nowhere and you're squattin' in the grass,
And there ain't no toilet paper but you need to wipe your . . . asterisk,
And that silken rag around your neck was handmade by your wife,
Then you're tuggin' on your shirttail and you're fishin' out your knife.
'Course, your shirt won't stay inside your pants, but pardner, that's okay,
'Cause the lice and fleas and ticks are sure to get 'em anyway.
When the wagon's been a-rollin' for at least two months or more,
Your patience and your outfit both are gettin' plenty wore.
Your bedroll's breedin' pollywogs, your skin is moldy green,
And you can't remember ever bein' warm and dry and clean.
Your boots are bound with tape and string, your belt's a cotton rope,
And you'd swap them silver inlaid spurs for half a bar of soap.
Your hat has lost the battle; it just droops around your chin,
And you've punched two peepholes through the brim to let the sunlight in.
Your saddle riggin's busted and your fenders split in two;
You've patched and sewed and mended them with balin' wire and glue.
You've got gallopin' green grumbles from ol' Cookie's stews and pies,
Which you swaller blind, 'cause you can't tell the raisins from the flies.
There's cowpies, mud and stickers every place you try to sit,
And the coffee you were drinkin' is a cup of snuffy spit!
Figger suicide's an option, but yer knife's too dull to cut,
From markin' ears on baby steers and sawin' on their nuts.
And it's humblin' when you think about your body there in rags.
Any self-respectin' buzzard would just fly away and gag!
I've learned to love the simple pleasures, that's my code and creed.
When you're gettin' by on nothin', there ain't nothin' more you need.
I reckon I'm just common, 'cause the highlight of my day
Is a cowdog lickin' on my toes to keep foot rot away.
So, Mr. Dude, enjoy your flight from city toil and strife,
Then go and tell your friends of this romantic cowboy life.
While you're eatin' gourmet food and sippin' wine or Perrier,
I'll be punchin' cows and slappin' leather with my derriere.
But I find it plumb amusin' and it makes me wanta grin,
When I think about the different situations that we're in.
I'll tip my hat and snap the cap and drink another beer,
'Cause I am not dumb enough to pay someone to let me come out here.
COPYRIGHT © MAY 20, 1990
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