There is supposed to be a Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Alpine this weekend, and Redneck thought we'd see about it for the first time. But Alpine's away-out-there and we're not going to make it. However, having already dusted off some poe-tree, we'll offer up this sample to our fine frlian friends. It's untitled.

Titans oft in lonely desperation/Struggled against the foe dread--/Long singular campaigns/Of which no tales remain but few./And on the earth yet walk men whose roll/Of deeds performed no eye to see/Keep silent scores and grudges full,/Brimming with unfinished duels.

One such Herculean combat waged/With thunder and smell of ozone/Scarred the western wilderness/And would not for ears of fair or faint/Yet bids be out and told.

As fleeting praise is all/That's offered or accepted and that not often/Nor long in the mouths of terse-lipped peers/Who only are allowed to speak such morsels dear,/Being the only way of legend kept,/This task befalls your author now only long since fallen/All others whose tasks better fit them to reveal/What their hard code would allow but briefly to relate:

The moon aglow watched Jim bend low/Then saddle the mean-eyed roan./Along the line was none to shine/The leather like Jim, it was known/For natural quick with balance to stick/To the top of any critter,/Jim had honed his skill till he owned/All rights to his prideful swagger./Top hand? Some say the best./I'm tempted, and I seen 'em all./So confident the rope he bent/To do the thing beyond the rest.

The roan just waited while Jim slipped/The hackamore top up over his mop/And he absently wiggled his lips./Heading the bronc from the corral he stopped/To open the gate and the horse/Felt for a stub on the post where he rubbed/An itching ear and slipped/The bridle off with a sigh and a cough/And followed with it dangling there.

Down to the flat, a short stroll at that,/Strutted Jim, crowbait in tow,/And nobody warned the boy/When he slipped up on the throne and tipped/His hat to begin the show.

Ride him fair was his goal,/But a pull on the lines let him know/He'd only a handful of hair/to steer this wreck, but what the heck,/He'd do 'er and do 'er fair,/Show this roan who was boss and own/A private grin to share down the line somewhere/(But not till Julie had guessed).

The roan, he dug and with a sort of a shrug/Whipped his rear end high/And his front way down, then threw in a wicked spin./Jim hung tough, but it wasn't enough,/And the beginning of the end/Was when the cayuse almost fell, though truth to tell/It was only a ruse./But Jim hadn't the time to take it to mind,/The roan laid him over so/He thought he could taste sage, and still in a rage,/Bronc rider Jim parted company with him--/On the next big jump, he let go.

He bit the dirt in a mighty hurt/But rolled and came up game/To feint or move, to dodge teeth or hooves,/Ready for whatever came./But the roan just rolled and bucked like old/Jim was still on board./After the third next jump,/He twirled, farted and darted,/And the saddle landed by Jim with a thump.

Another rider would've grinned or cursed,/But Jim plumb cried, he was fit to be tied,/It near ruined his disposition./And to this day, the old cowboy'll say/His life's only unrealized ambition/(Even fair Julie and the kids can't talk him out of it)/Was that he couldn't tree that roan so free./Deep etched in his craw is the picture he saw/When the roan commenced to buck naked toward a moonlit draw.

So, fair frlians, how far would you go for a pun?

-- J (jsnider@hal-pc.org), March 01, 2004

Answers

Good one J. It just needs a title, something like "The Roans Revenge".

-- Carol (c@oz.com), March 03, 2004.

The Roan Ranger?

-- Robert & Jean (getingwarmer@ga.inthespring), March 04, 2004.

Lol, even better Robert & Jean. Hope you're starting to get some nice Spring days.

-- Carol (c@oz.com), March 06, 2004.