"Cowboy  Poetry"

"There's right and there's wrong. You got a do one or the other.
You do the one and you're living.
You do the other and you may be walking around,
but you're dead as a beaver hat." -- From the Alamo

“Old 27”
written by my good friend who rode "Old 27"
Don Scarbrough
  copyright  02/28/1974
 

Now in the bar behind the chutes, where Kenny Stanton was
  I moseyed up with drink in hand, and ask him how he does.
We talked until I turned to leave, he ask where I was headin’,
 “Home to get a heap of rest, I drawed bad, Beutler’s 27.”
He cringed a little as to say, he’d had that seat before,
 “And when the tweeter dings, get gone!” He didn’t have to tell me more.

Now Tucker pulled my rope that night, while Gander worked the gates.
 Linger hollered hurry up, ’cause the show was running late.
Weeks penciled on the left while Bernis judged the right.
 As cowboys climbed the nearest fence, cause 27 liked to fight.
I eased down on a brindle back, that filled the chute plum full.
 Now boys I’m here to tell you, that’s a lot of bucking bull.

I hunched up on my rosined rope, turned my toes out by his side,
 And nodded for the gateman there, to open slow and wide.
Gander jerked the gate latch hard, then ran to make the wall.
 As I jobbed steel, it opened up about a foot in all,
‘cause in his haste to leave the scene, he’d left the gate rope tied.
 I had a Tush hog by the tail, and no place to make the ride.

We finally got him settled down, so I pulled my rope again,
 Wishin’ all the time this bull was in the re-ride pen.
Wilber swung by on his dummy, he and wick could see me fine.
 As I prayed, Lord have mercy on this body I call mine.
This time the gate came open, me and 27 on our own,
 I let him take me to the dance, but he sure went home alone.

He turned it back and blew into the start of a right hand spin,
 I hustled up and put my feet, right where they oughta been.
I’d dive down in that well and let him pick me up just right.
 We played that song a time or two, and that well’s a scary sight.
All I could see was his bad head, as he waltzed around with me.
 It weren’t no time for thinking, of someplace I’d rather be.

Now old 27 did his thing, you can’t believe how that bull fired,
 And as he chunked me out the rear, my try was getting awful tired.
I guess we made a sight to see in that Albuquerque dust,
 Me crawlin’on my hands and knees, to outrun that ornery cuss.
But Wick Peth will save your life, if you give him half a chance.
 ‘cause seven times he pulled 27 off the pockets of my pants.

Now hand , I want to tell you, old 27 would hunt and eat.
 There sure wouldn’t be no litter, if that bull had cleaned the street.
So when you talk about the honkers, you’d like to give a try,
 Be glad you’ll never have to be the gleam in 27’s eye.
I waltzed with 27, boys, we danced all around the room.
 And I’ve still got the scars to show, for the way he hummed the tune.

Gentleman Don

If I could say one word about a man named Don
It would be so very hard to only think of one

A word so filled with meaning too short it could not be
It must go on forever throughout eternity

I tried so hard to make a word especially for Don
A word to stay upon the lips and never quite be gone

splendiferfullymarveliciousextraspecialmendous
Would only just begin to to tell you how terrifically stupendous

So I stopped my quest to build a word of great magnificence
To simply say he is my friend makes a lot more sense

My life has been enriched with laughter, love, and song
Since I met a man ... I call him Gentleman Don.

By
Pamela R. Blaine

 
 

Courage is being scared to death--and saddling up anyway.
-John Wayne
 
 

When a buzzard sits on the fence and stares at you,
it's time to go to the doctor