...The Notorious Clanton Gang proudly presents...

1997- 1998



Frank "Two Jump" Morris

February 1999

by Frank "Two Jump" Morris

Ridin' bulls is a fools occupation

Aside from the obvious dangers and hazards

it don't quite fit my station.

Requirements for a bull ridin' are two fold,

that is if you want to be good.

The first bein' a butt made of iron,

and the second a brain made of wood.

The latter is harder to come by, as most start life with some sense.

but it all liquifies and runs out your ears

'bout the time your head hits the fence.

Bull riders are masochists.

I can prove it beyond doubt's last trace.

Fer who else would climb up on a vision of death,

and then slap his-self in the face?

Who else loves the tase of fear,

so thick in his mouth he could chew it?

The most unbelievable part is still on the way.

He pays fifty dollars to do it!

By Frank "Two Jump" Morris

I'm gonna tell a story that some men know about.

Ya see, I looked in the mirror this mornin' and saw

my hair was comin' out.

Now I been expectin' this for a little while,

as my granddads both was bald.

But I was hopin' it would be a little while

before my number got called.

Right now I'm only thirty five, and in fair good shape I'm told,

and I thought you only got shiny headed when you was proper old.

It really don't much matter Mother Natures little trick,

cause I still work as good as new and can still hit quite a lick.

My wife says not to worry, that my head ain't quite so hairy.

but sometimes I still wonder if I'm the man she married?

This goin' bald, it ain't no fun, but since I am I wonder,

what it is that should be done?

Should I buck up and be a man? Let Nature take it's course?

Or should I git some Elmers glue and a wooly buckskin horse?

Should I comb the remnants over, with liberal pomade?

Or would that just make an oil slick, in which the bugs could wade?

A Taupe would blow off in the wind, cures are but a ruse,

to get into the pockets of men who's hair is on the loose.

Transplants to me look painful, so I won't go for that.

I'll just save up what I would have spent,

for another Stetson hat!

By Frank "Two Jump" Morris

There is a good reason for walkin' behind,

like a buck deer walks behind does.

The view from back there is better,

any man or any buck knows.

A good one astraddle a fifteen inch saddle,

as one of natures great sights.

it's made men go crazy an crane out their necks,

an been the cause of quite a few fights.

Dimpled or round, sometimes by the pound,

an artwork or meritous mention.

When you like them as much as I do,

you really don't mind the dimensions.

Them little heart shaped beauties, to my eye at least

are the ones I deem to be best.

Oh to hell with judgmental patter,

I love all the tails of the west.

Copyright © 1990

Who is Frank "Two Jump" Morris?

Frank "Two Jump" Morris is a professional cowboy poet from Norco California. Morris has been entertaining audiences and readers with his exceptional style of poetry and tall tales since 1988. His work ranges from the hilarious to the philosphical, and no topic is too sacred for the scrutinizing eye of this first rate prevaricator. In Addition to making regular appearances at rodeos, dude ranches, cowboy gatherings and charitable events throughout the southwest, Frank's has published a cowboy poetry book and recorded a cassette tape. On numerous occasions, he has opened for such entertainers as Chris LeDoux, Rusty Richards, Riders in the Sky, The Reinsmen and more. There's a reason Frank Morris is called "Two Jump." Back in his younger days, when he was saddle bronc and bareback riding, most of the time it only took about two jumps out of the chute to send Morris heading for the arena floor, "I couldn't stick to anything any longer." said Frank.

I'm very proud to be named "Cowboy Poet of the Month, Thank You"   Frank "Two Jump" Morris

© -1998 All Rights Reserved.
Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed permission of Frank "Two Jump"Morris.
Frank don't do a computers!.. so call him at: (909) 734-1793


J.D. Moor

December 1998


By J.D. Moor

I was saddlin up my big red roan
We was going out checkin bovines not far from home
I called my old dog and opened the gate
And headed on out at a leisurely pace

Through the big pasture we headed and up through the trees
With that good old cow dog a followin me
Even though he was old he still carried the stride
Cause old Blue was a cow dog and deep down inside

I felt that he knew that his workin days were numbered
And it was always a worry to me and I had to wonder
If this time while out if he just couldn’t complete
The journey we’re takin on those old tired feet

Now we got to the pasture and the checkin was done
And I was surprised to see old Blue on the run
He was acting like a pup not a care in the world

Runnin around and chasin ground squirrels
But on the way back Blue wasn’t so spry
And he stopped and looked me square in the eye

It was written all over that poor dog’s old face
And I knew right away he could not keep up the pace
So off the big roan and down to the ground

I pick ol Blue up and he makes a soft sound
Onto the saddle I placed him with care
And he rode back to the ranch his head high in the air

Well that was the last trip Blue and I had
And the day that he passed on it was really sad
Now roan and I miss him that goes without saying

And I can still hear his barks, and I really am prayin
That up there in dog heaven there is many things
Ground squirrels to chase and cool mountain springs

I just want him to be happy wherever he’s at
And Blue if you’re listening NO CHASIN THEM CATS!!!!!

Copyright © 1998

By J.D. Moor

Well let me just tell ya this story here right away
Of what is a cowboy and how he spends his day
He may spend it ridin horses some broke and some green
Or workin with the cattle or workin on machines

He may be out fixin the fence way out back
Or sittin in the tack room repairing some tack
He cares for his living for none would he trade

To change this lifestyle or the choices he made
The outdoors is his office and for that he is glad
And being a cowboy just ain’t that darn bad

He lives by the morals by which he was raised
And by some he is scorned and others he’s praised
Sure you may understand him but most folks they don’t

And to really get to know him well most folks they won’t
He’ll keep to himself and he likes it that way
And he’ll just thank the Lord when he rises each day

See he’s not in it for glory or getting rich quick,
He’s in it for the lifestyle that he has picked

So when you see a cowboy in your travels one day
Tip your hat and smile and a kind word do say
For we really ain’t much different from most folk you see
Just the size of our office and the fact we are free

Copyright © 1998

By J.D. Moor

"How long does it take?"
She whispers to me
"To wax up that stache’
So darn perfectly"

You see my old stache’ with curls way out wide
It draws some attention cause it’s so hard to hide
Now folks find it funny and strange you might say
That someone like me could wear it this way

They say it’s outdated, from days long gone by
And "Geez watch what you’re doing, you could put out an eye"
I get lots of comments and a question or two

Like "Where is your horse Tex?" and "Hey that is cool"
But I really don’t worry and I really don’t care
What other people think of my facial hair

I like this ol mustache so big and so bold
And just like those others that’ve been told
You will maybe forget my name as I said
But you’ll never forget this stache’ on this head

So you see for the most part I must truly say
That this handlebar mustache is with me to stay

Copyright © 1998

Who is J.D. Moor?

I am a custom saddlemaker from Alberta Canada, I love to write these real life ..sometimes exaggerated stories as my city friends would say...I hope you al like reading them as much as I liked writing them.

© -1998 All Rights Reserved.
Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of J.D. Moor.
Contact J.D. at: moorj@cadvision.com

Bette Duncan

November 1998

Cowboy Girl Poet of the Month

By Bette Duncan

It was 5 o’clock in the morning
When he stumbled in through the door.
She’s spent the whole night crying;
she threw out his boots and she swore.

It was 5 o’clock in the evening.
Her eyes were swollen and red.
She placed his boots by her bedside;
Then pulled back the covers and said-

“Pack away your bedroll…
Didn’t mean the things I said.
I’ll cook your favorite chili…
I’ll warm your chilly bed.

The way I got it figured
You’re a midnight kind of man..
Well I’m a midnight kind of woman
With a kind of midnight plan!!!

By Bette Duncan

Through riding bulls and bucking broncs,
he earned a certain fame.
From Canada to Mexico,
his was a well-known name.

“There is no bull that I can’t ride”,
You’d often hear him say.
And sometimes he would show with pride
the buckle won that day.

But when the cowboy’s ride was done,
the whiskey rode on him.
It rode his back and kicked his flank
and spurred his every limb.

There was no bull he couldn’t ride…
or drink he could refuse.
There came a day when whiskey won-
then every ride, he’d lose.

In the end, the whiskey won- the whiskey, wine, and gin.
He doesn’t ride bulls any more-
But whiskey still rides him.

By Bette Duncan

After riding through the plains,
the tumbleweeds and sage-
he’d come back home and ride into
the new computer age.

He entered his computer,
and the rancher felt the same
as Clark and Lewis must have felt
while on the western plain.-

They traveled on some distant land
a million miles from home.
The rancher, like the two of them,
rode through the vast unknown.

The rancher rode across the range
Then flew through distant stars.
He crossed into a surreal world
As alien as Mars.

Exaggerated? “NO!” he’d say.
“In essence, it’s quite true.
It’s like a science fiction book…
the things this box can do!”

Who is Bette Duncan?

I am a retired attorney who was born and raised in Montana. I lived on a ranch during my early years; but my family moved to town during the depression. I am married to a man who was born and raised on a Montana ranch. His family ranched on land that included leased Indian land in the Pryor Mountains. I have mined his memory for many nuggets; and I am in the processing of putting them down in verse. As to me, I am spending my retirement years doing wha t I love best---- writing verse, poetry and fiction.

© -1998 All Rights Reserved.
Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Bette Duncan.
Contact Bette at: wacobill@uswest.net

October 1998


By Rod Miller

I’ve been hung up when I bucked off over my hand
And dragged around while my boots filled with sand,
Been kicked and stomped and stepped on and bit,
I’ve landed on my head and I’ve lit where I sit;

Been blown out the back door, flung over the head,
And off either side I’ve been dropped, pitched, and shed,
Bucked off into fences and slammed into gates
And sampled the soil in a number of states,

My hand has jerked loose, I’ve lost hold with my feet,
My rigging has slipped and I’ve plain lost my seat.
I learned from experience that you can’t breathe dirt
And that flailing hooves can raise hell with a shirt.

I’ve driven hundreds of miles for an eight-second ride
That ended in six with a bounce, roll, and slide.
There were times when the trip went according to plan,
Only to end up run over by the pickup man.

But once in a while, when the moon was blue,
I did somehow manage to stay on a few.
I even went to the Finals with the top fifteen
(Section W, row twelve, seat one-seventeen).


By Rod Miller

There are stories—must be thousands—
About cowboy roping tricks;
About what they’ll dab a loop on
When they’re looking for some kicks.

Grizzly bears and mule deer,
Antelope, elk, and moose—
There’s probably a cowboy somewhere
Who’ll claim to have roped a goose.

Well, I wouldn’t be much of a roper
If I didn’t have a story, too.
This one’s about old Roy and me,
His horse, Jughead, and my Old Blue.

We were up in the high Uintahs
Packing salt to the Muleshoe herd
When an old bobcat let loose with a scream—
The scariest sound I’ve heard.

The packtrain bolted in every direction—
Which is a lot worse than it sounds—
They were tied together head to tail,
So they jerked one another to the ground.

Jughead lunged then bogged his head,
Roy lit on his nose in a heap.
All that commotion almost woke up Old Blue;
He snorted, then went back to sleep.

We danced around with the packhorses
Trying to set their loads to right,
While Roy steamed and stewed and screamed And swore.
He was really on the fight.

Where the hell’s that bobcat?
Where’d he go? Roy hollered at me.
Why, Roy, he didn’t go anywhere.
He’s sitting right there in that tree.

Boy, tighten up them cinches,
Roy says, and build yourself a loop,
We’ll rope that cat, head and heels,
He said as he rode off with a whoop.

That bobcat, he just watched old Roy
From his leafy tree-top bed.
Then dropped straight down as Roy
Circled around, and lit right on his head.

Jughead didn’t like that one bit
So he showed his belly to the sun.
Roy and the cat hit the ground together,
Him in a heap, the cat on the run.

Get after him! Roy hollered,
Get a loop around his neck!
I’ll be right behind you, he said,
As soon as I sort out this wreck.

Being young and dumb, I screwed down
My hat and laid the spurs to Old Blue—
Having been raised to pay attention
To what my elders tell me to do.

Through the trees we flew on the run,
Moving aside limbs with my nose,
Jumping deadfall and dodging rocks
As the distance we attempted to close.

When the woods gave way to a meadow
I knew that cat was caught,
He might could elude us in the trees,
But in open country, he could not.

My loop was singing as it was swinging,
Oh, what a pretty sound;
Through the air it flew, straight and true,
And its target it soon found.

I jerked my slack and angled off;
Set that cat for Roy’s ankle cast—
By the way, I didn’t have to dally,
I prefer to rope hard and fast.

But Roy, he wasn’t there for the throw,
He and Jughead were nowhere in sight.
Meanwhile, the bobcat was coming my way,
Climbing that rope, and on the fight.

Once again, I fed Old Blue the spurs
And it became a race.
Somehow, it seemed, that cat got faster
Now that he controlled the chase.

On the third lap around the meadow
We finally passed old Roy.
Jerk him down! He hollered,
Climb off and hog-tie him, boy!

His laughter rolled across the grass
And echoed off the trees
As he sat in the saddle and wiped his eyes,
Held his stomach, and slapped his knees.

Well, since I’m here to tell you the story,
it ended; it don’t matter much how.
Suffice it to say, my roping these days
Is limited to the species Cow.

That event was part of my education,
Its lesson you can easily deduce:
Catching a bobcat is easy to do—
The hard part is turning it loose.


By Rod Miller

Dressing up for the rodeo used to be a simple affair:
Any old hat, boots, and jeans and you’re as good as there.
Nowadays it’s gotten a lot more serious—
Even thinking about it can make you delirious.

Just keeping track of boot styles is a Texas-size hassle,
What with ropers and regulars and lace-ups with tassels
There are high tops and low cuts, fancy and plain
In so many colors it taxes the brain.
Cut from cowhide, bullhide, ostrich, and shark,
And exotic leathers that glow in the dark.
And once you figure out boots you still have to decide
Whether to tuck in your pants or leave ’em outside.

Speaking of jeans, do you know what to do—
Should you go for a color or just stick with blue?
Stone-washed, pre-washed, pre-shrunk or faded
Officially endorsed and rodeo rated,
Whether cowboy cut, straight-leg, relaxed fit or slim,
Six inches too long is the look that is in.
And a W on each hind pocket is definitely in order—
So you can spell “wow” every time you bend over.

Your next big problem, of course, is the hat
They come tall and thin and they come short and fat
With brims that are narrow and brims that are wide
Laying out flat or turned up on the sides
There are crowns that are smooth and crowns that are creased
More ways than you can keep track of—hundreds, at least.
Then there are accessories: hatbands and tacks,
Feathers, and those string things that dangle out back.

But choosing rodeo regalia nowadays is important
Because it’s not just a sport, it’s a fashion statement
And you have to make sure you impress all the dudes.
Or you could just forget the whole thing—and rodeo nude.

Who is Rod Miller?
Rod Miller has been slinging the bull professionally for the past twenty years as an advertising copywriter in Idaho, Nevada, and Utah. Despite competing for the Utah State University Rodeo Team, he managed to graduate from college. He also competed in high school and PRCA rodeos and worked for a stock contractor. He grew up in Goshen, Utah helping his family tend horses and cattle and haul hay. Rod lives in Sandy, Utah where he works in advertising and re-lives his rodeo days through his attempts at poetry.

© -1998 All Rights Reserved.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Rod Miller.
Contact Rod at: Rod@Snedaker.com

Anne Slade
Cowboy Girl Poet of the Month

September 1998

Bull Story

By Anne Slade 1998

When I came, as a girl, from the city
my man took time to explain
the way things are done on a ranch,
'cause city ways aren't quite the same.

Sometimes, however, things happen
that you've never even discussed
and you have to work together,
sorta co-operate and adjust.

Now, you ever try chasin' a black bull
on a night when the stars don't shine,
and there's nary a trace of moonlight?
I tried it with that man of mine.

See, we'd been visitin' neighbours,
got back to the ranch about one,
and there's a black bull on our road,
out prowlin' and lookin' for fun.

So we stop right there, near the bull
and my man prepares to chase
while I drive back down the road
to open the west pasture gate.

I don't know the rules here,
but I figure, without a doubt
I oughta go back, till he hollers,
"Move that darn truck out!"

Move it? I shift into gear.
Move it? I'm wonderin' where.
But the phrases comin' from my man
suggest that he really won't care.

I hear the bull's hooves poundin'
as I back out of sight
and I hear my man yellin' somethin'
'bout dimmin' those doggone lights.

Well, if he wants it darker
I can fix that, no doubt.
I take off down the road,
till I hear this awful shout.

Back I go towards him,
(with my lights on dim),
my man is runnin' down the road
and the black bull is chasin' him!

Well he jumps the Texas gate,
the bull blowin' snot in his pants,
my man skims into the truckbox
and that bull doesn't even glance

our way as he runs down the road,
likely to spoon and to spark,
while my man sets into explanin' the rules
for chasin' black bulls in the dark.

Cowboy Blessing

By Anne Slade 1998

May the rains fall on your pastures
and the grass grow belly high.
May your calves get fat and sassy
and none of your cows be dry.
May your horses be sure footed
and blessed with good cow sense.
May your neighbours lend a hand
when it's time to fix the fence.
May the sun shine on your crops
when you harvest in the fall.
May your handshake be considered
your word by one and all.
When your life is filled with laughter
or when it's sad and grey,
may those you love be with you
to share each blessed day.

Ode to Rubber Boot Weather

By Anne Slade 1998

The words are far from lady-like
racing through my mind,
when I'm chasing a heifer
through a mucky corral
and my boot's three steps behind!

Who is Anne Slade?


My name is Anne Slade. I ranch with my husband and our youngest son in the Cypress Hills in Saskatchewan, Canada. I'm a cowboy poet and have been performing for five or six years.(I've been writing for a lot longer!)

Sure enjoy your Cowboy Poetry On-Line! Anne Slade

© -1998 All Rights Reserved.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Anne Slade.
Contact Anne Slade:: slade@sk.sympatico.ca

David J. Dill

August 1998


I'm just a Texas cowboy,
I've been one all my life.
I can ride and rope and wrangle,
I can cook and deal with strife.

I live in the Heart of Texas,
Where the prairie rolls, the grass is green.
But I've cowboyed from there to the Van Horn,
And all places in between.

I followed 250 longhorns
When they crossed the River Red.
They ran just south of Terral,
But we didn't loose a head.

I drove some steers right down the street
In El Paso one Sunday morn.
There were cameras and directors
And a TV spot was born.

I've punched cows on Mustang Island,
A barge took us to our work.
Ol' Toddy Lee and all them
Winn's are rich,
But not one acts much like a jerk.

I've not yet seen Montana,
Or Colorado more than thrice.
I'm here a ridin' and a Wranglin'
But I'm leavin' if there's ice.

There rockies are a good place
To spend a month or two.
I'm sure tickled just to be here
And mighty proud to ride with YOU!

David J. Dill © July, 1997


Rick's wife's great grandpa
Was a cowboy I suppose.
I didn't know him
But you can tell by the clothes.

Rick has the old saddle,
Leggins, britches, spurs and hat.
Only a cowboy
Would wear stuff like that.

The saddle is high back,
Thin pommel, no swell.
The leggins are woolies,
And sometimes they smell.

The britches are long waisted,
No loops for a belt.
The hat's black, high crowned,
Made of beaver fur felt.

The spurs have spoke rowells,
That jingle when you walk.
Now clothes like that
Still make a cowboy talk.

Well heck, come to think,
Cowboy clothes haven't changed,
From that time when Great Grandpa Hart and his cows ranged.

Across the praries; through the canyons;
Amongst cedar and Live Oak.
If you're gonna' cowboy, then or now,
You want to dress like a cow poke.

David J. Dill © Jan. 1996


Of life and death,
I've been thinkin' a lot.
But a final decision I've made not.

'Bout the final disposition
Of this frail human form
That I have enjoyed since the day I was born.

My pals have a plan
That appeals to me.
The logic is brilliant,
As you will see.

David Wylie's gonna skin me,
Upon my death.
And take my hide to Rick Pinner
And wait with baited breath.

For Rick to tan me
In that stinkin' stuff.
Then remove my hyde
When he's waited long enough.

Then color my hyde
In red, blue or pink.
And take me to Glen Wylie,
When I no longer stink..

Then Glen's gonna pad saddles
For cowgirl folk.
And you can believe it or not,
For it ain't no joke.

'Cause I still want to here,
As all eternity passes.
Between fast Quarterhorses
And cowgirl Wranglers!

Who is David J. Dill?

Mr . Dill was born and raised in Corsicana,, Navarro Co. Texas where he began learning his cowboy skills from "Pop" Edens on one of the famous Edens ranches. He earned a Masters Degree from Sam Houston State University in Huntsville, Texas and worked for the USDA for nearly 34 years. After retirement Mr. Dill has devoted his full time to writing and reciting his cowboy poetry and ranching at his Z D Ranch in Hubbard, Texas. He wrangled in a national park in Colorado for part of the summer of 1997 before a kidney stone cut short his mountain wrangling carear. In 1998 Mr. Dill has recited his cowboy poetry at Old Fort Parker, The Hubbard Cowboy Jamboree, A night in the Park in Grosebeck, The Hart ranch Roundup. The Z D Ranch roundup and ride as well as several local trail rides and horse training clinics. Mr Dill has recently sold five poems to a Eastern Publisher and expects to see his works published early in 1999. His work is appearing on several internet web sites and he was Awarded the "Muse Award" by the Arcanum Café for his work during the month of June 1998. At one of his recent appearances the president of his local story tellers guild told the audience to listen carefully as Mr. Dill expressed his sly and dry humor in his poetry. "Mr. Dill is accepting sponsorships for his appearances and can be contacted by e-mail below.

© -1998 All Rights Reserved.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of David J. Dill.
Contact David J. Dill: zdranch@hillsboro.net

July 1998

Bob E. Lewis


© 1998 Bob E. Lewis

Wrapped up in folded paper,
In a pocket of the ole shirt he wore,
Were several old and tattered photos,
That were printed back many years before.

There were pictures of horses and cattle,
Line shacks, wagons and such.
Things that meant everything to him,
But to others they didn't mean much.

One day an ole feller asked him,
Why he carried them with him all the time,
He looked at the man kinda sheepish,
Then this story began to unwind.

He said while in conversation,
With ole timers sorta like me,
Sometimes they looked kinda doubtful,
When I tell them how things used to be.

They would sit around salebarns and cafes,
And relive most of their past,
But memories sometimes shore can fail you,
And then you need something to last.

He would tell of a bronc that he'd ridden,
And how many times he'd been thrown.
But once in a while one wouldn't believe you,
That's when they had to be shown.

He'd drag out that ole batch of photos,
That he had in the pocket of that ole shirt.
He'd handled them all oh so carefully,
Flip away each little grain of dirt

Then he had the proof that he needed,
To back up the stories he told,
They then had no reason to doubt him,
When he talked of those days of old.


© 1998 Bob E. Lewis

We had started hunting mavericks,
After catching up last fall,
We were down along the river,
Where salt cedars grow thick and tall.

To help our poor ole horses stay as
Fresh as they could be.
We'd partner up to take our turns,
With the other riders that we could see.

We'd sit up on a small hill there,
Until the others drove them by,
Then we'd fall in, take up the chase,
We'd leave that ole hill on the fly.

When our horses began to fade a bit,
We'd start to look around,
To see just who was waiting,
And just where they could be found.

We'd try to work those mavericks,
Close to the riders waiting on that hill,
On us to bring those cattle by,
Then they would try to make the kill.

When our turn once more did catch us,
I was closing in real fast,
On a shore enough ole great big bull,
My time to rope had come at last.

I laid a big ole perfect loop,
Around that ole bull's horns,
I'd never thrown a more perfect catch,
Since the day when I was born.

I was basking in my self-righteous pride,
And grinning from ear to ear,
When suddenly it just dawned on me,
The thought filled this boy with fear.

For there I was tied hard and fast,
To a bull used to running all free,
I looked all around as far as I could,
But no partner anywhere could I see.

I saw a little movement then,
From the corner of my eye,
My partner was moving in real fast,
I shore let out one great big sigh.

I began to try to take some control,
Of the fate that I then had in store,
For if I didn't do the right thing real quick,
A terrible wreck would happen for shore.

I kinda got that ole bull to start turning,
So my partner could pick up his heels,
My partner laid down the prettiest catch,
It shore filled this old boy with big thrills.

We got him stretched out and laying,
And was breathing sighs of relief,
We could hear the truck and trailer a coming,
When he was loaded would end all our grief.

After no other events happened this day,
We headed back to the wagon for chow,
And laid down on our saddles for pillows,
And rest a little someway or somehow.

I laid down my head, jumped back on my feet
For something just didn't feel right,
That ole saddle shore was limber in the middle.
It gave me one heck of a fright.

On closer inspection, I discovered one thing,
The Good Lord was with me that day,
For that ole tree was split right down the middle,
Seeing this made me bow down to pray.

"Lord, you shore saved my neck this day,
This I now know for shore,
For when I had my rope on that ole big bull,
You kept this ole saddle from all being tore".


© 1998 Bob E. Lewis

When we were working in the canyons,
With their trails so rough and steep,
There was one tool I always wanted,
When I rode down into the deep.

It was a little old bay saddle mule,
That we kept in the ranch cavvy,
He wasn't heavy on good looks,
But he shore had lots of savvy.

He probably didn't weigh 900 pounds,
And that would be soaking wet,
But when I rode this little mule,
I never broke a sweat.

I never worried about him falling,
As down into the canyon I would ride,
His steps were sure and steady,
And he never once would slide.

If you just gave him the direction,
Of the place you'd need to go,
Turn him loose and let him pick his way,
You'd be moving pretty slow.

But just give him time, don't be impatient,
Let him take the time for his deeds,
Then you'll both be there and ready,
When that old canyon again has your needs.

Who is Bob E. Lewis?

I was born and finished high school in the mesquite and prickly pear country of Archer County Texas. I worked after school, on weekends and summers for the neighboring ranches. After graduation I went to work for the upper Matador Ranch in the Texas panhandle. I spent some time at the Trujillo Line Camp but most of it was spent with the wagon crew. My web site is covered with photos taken on this old historic ranch. that was some of the best times of my life. My wife Gail and I now live about twelve miles from town and our nearest neighbor is only a quarter of a mile away, but it sure beats living in town where you can't walk between the houses. We can look out the window and see our old Longhorns grazing and it sure makes you feel free.

Bob E. Lewis

© -1998 All Rights Reserved.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Bob E. Lewis.
Contact Bob E. Lewis: bob@custombodies.com

Louis A. Carle

June 1998

by Louis A. Carle

Almost nine months before my birth
I took my first real buggy ride;
All snug and comfy from the first
In my mama's warm inside.

Then on another trip to town
Above a buckboard seat,
I heard the steady sound
Of mama's heart and trotting feet.

Long before I ever wiggled loose
And saw the light of day -
I'd been over miles of frozen snow
In a one horse open sleigh.

Before I'd breathed a month of air
They'd put me on a horse-
And while my daddy held me there,
Had my picture took - of course.

By three or four I rode alone
On a gentle Belgian nag.
While my brother rode all clean at point
I ate dust on drag.

By the time I'm five I'm feeding pigs
And milking Jersey cows.
I'm being taught to think real big
And never say "I can't or won't - or,
Mom, I don't know how."

They hitched a gentle "breaking mare"
With a colt that's still real "cold" -
Then told me "drive" and didn't care
That I'm only six years old.

By eight I'm walking barefoot
In fresh earth behind a plow.
At the forge, I pump the bellows
Heating iron and learning how

To read the "color of the heat"
And to love the anvil "bell."
By ten I'm making horse shoes
And nail them on all by myself.

About then I started - bareback -
Breaking half wild yearling colts,
And since, I've handled thousands
And I've had my share of jolts.

I worked on farms with livestock
'Till the start of world war two;
Then I joined the Army Air Corps
'Cause I loved my country true.

I did my stint with Uncle Sam
Then when the fight was o'er
I got back to working horses -
Though it took ten years or more.

Since then I've seen a lot of trail
And a lot of cow behinds;
Pushed dudes up rocky canyons
And camped in the scented pines

I rode "ten thousand" horses-
Some I broke and some I trained.
I taught a "jillion" kids to ride
On every kind of saddle and with every
kind of rein.

Worked with horses more than cattle
'Though I guess I've done my share.
Fought a hard financial battle
Just to keep my hand in there.

I've asked to have my ashes scattered
On a trail where horses move-
Where they can walk across my face
And stomp me with their hooves.

Just as in months before my birth,
I'll hear their trotting feet
And finish up my stay on earth
On some rocky cowboy street.

(c) 1995 by Louis A. Carle

by Louis A. Carle

I took the old horse in as a trade
And I didn't really care
If he wasn't all that perfect;
I could use him as a spare.

"He's a horse you can depend on."
Said the man who made the trade.
"But my daughter wants a show horse
So she needs a step upgrade."

About a week and I was needing
Something stout to move some strays,
So I saddled up the gelding
And began to learn his ways.

First of all, the horse was cinchy
And he lunged against the tie -
Broke a good old Johnson halter
When I pulled the cinch strap tight.

Then he settled down real peaceful
So I supposed he'd pack a man;
But when my right knee cleared the cantle
His old tail began to fan.

I didn't get real settled
'Till the barn roof came in view.
Had he pitched a whole lot higher
I'd have sprouted wings, and flew.

One jump was all he wanted
And since I was still on top;
I spurred him to a gallop -
Swore I'd run him till he dropped.

About a mile and he's relaxing
So I think "He's been around."
And I head on up the canyon,
Loping out to cover ground.

I eyeball one old Brahma cow
Camped in the chaparral -
And I asked Old Red to follow
Up the rocky canyon wall.

Some place from where we found her
And before we reached the top -
We were closing up real easy
When the cow decides to stop.

She turned and dared my pony
To come close or try to pass.
So I asked Old Red to stand there
While I shaken out my "lass."

We eased on in and roped her -
Got one horn and her nose,
When she charged, Old Red was ready,
But she still got way too close.

Then we turned her up the mountain,
Because I know up there's a trail.
I give Old Red the signal
And we all began to sail.

I figured she'd keep movin -
Or I could head her if she'd turn.
Well, she does, and comes back past us
And my dally starts to burn.

I thought I'd lost a finger
When the rope ripped through my hand.
She stole my "lass" and headed
Down the mountain, kickin' sand.

To follow her was easy
As she goes crashing through the brush.
I figured I could trail her
So there wasn't any rush.

Then I stop - and ask that old red horse
"Do you see what I see?"
When that Brahman hit the willows
She had dallied to a tree.

The old horse knew how to work her
So we brought the cow to pen..
Then I started thinking, rashly,
I'll soon ride this horse again.

But every time I saddled
And was set to start my ride,
It was like I'm on a rocket
And about to learn to fly.

"He's a horse you can depend on.
" Said the man - And it's no joke.
He's dependable for cow work -
If you first can get him broke.

(c) 1996 by Louis A. Carle

by Louis A. Carle

My granddaughter who was just about three
Watched me train -
and she heard every word.
She'd sit quietly for hours to listen and watch
As I worked each fresh horse from the herd.

One day her mama was brushing a mare
And asked "How do you know which is which?"
The little one answered "Grandpa don't care -
He just names them all Son-a-Bitch!

(c) 1995 by Louis A. Carle

Who is Louis A. Carle?

I use 73 years of memories to tell the stories of incidents in my life that my grandkids might know me long after I am gone.

Born on a farm in Illinois, I lived throug the depression helping from very tender years to keep some clothing on our backs and our bellys full. My father died when I was three years old so it was up to my wonderful mother and with the Grace of God that I grew up "straight" and "sober'.

I learned early on, to give a little more than the day's work called for.

As a family, we broke and trained horses for the neighbors and thus always had "pulling power" for our farm work. There was no TV or radio. No electricity and sometimes no telephone. A look into one of my books will explain all of this and how it affected my life.

In a future communication should you indicate a desire, I will send you a couple of "stories" that go into that subject.

One is called "Womb To Tomb" and starts with the line "About nine months before my birth I took my first real buggy-ride ---" It then chronicles my life through the years and asks that my ashes be - "scattered where horses trod".

During World War Two, I did a stint in the U.S. Army Air Corps as a helicopter pilot. (the first to fly under fire).

Some constructin work. A little time in an executive chair and all the time doing my Ranch thing. Mostly horses. Then the ranching took over and, well, read the book.

"Keep one leg on each side of your hoss 'n don't come back to camp awearin' out yer boot soles".

that old wasbeen cowboy Louis A. Carle

 © -1998 All Rights Reserved.
Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Louis A. Carle.
Contact Louis A. Carle at: laiacarl@pe.net

Lee "Lucky" Glasscock

May 1998


by Lee "Lucky" Glasscock

So you want to be a cowboy
Well kid, come and hunker down
By the fire while I tell you
Why you would be better off in town
Cowboying is hard work boy
And it's dangerous as it can be
If you think I'm just funnin'
Take a closer look at me

See these hands how they're covered with scars?
From wrist to fingertips
That's from stretching bob-wire
Or from branding irons that slipped
And the fingers, yep three gone
They got caught between the rope and the horn
When you throw a dally and catch a finger
It's gone just as sure as you're born

This Black patch ove my left eye
Well it's there to cover up a hole
Left when a tree branch took my eye
And it helps keep out the cold
You know my old hips and knees
They've been busted so many times
That now I can hardly walk
And I used to dance real fine

You can see what cowboying done to me
Son, it'll do the same to you
So stay right here in town boy
You'll live longer if you do
Cowboying has plum ruined my body
And it's made me old before my time
I'll bet that you think I'm over sixty
But hell, I just turned twenty-nine.



by Lee "Lucky" Glasscock

I want to tell you a story about ole Blue Bird
A hoss from down Oklahoma way
How he shook a cowboys confidence
And earned his name one day
With long, flowing tail and mane
He never felt a rope before
And his wild eyes promised pain

His owner had offered fifty bucks
To anyone who could break that stud
I stepped up and side "I'll try him"
For fire was in my blood
I thought that I was a twister
Could ride anything with hair
I said when I finished with this cayuse
He'll be tame as a rocking chair

Well, we tied up one front leg
Put a pinch hold on his nose
I settled in the saddle
Then said, "now let him go"
Well he swallowed up his head
And he kicked out at the moon
He swapped ends, and snapped my neck
And my mind went out of tune

Well, he grunted, and he bellered
Like he didn't have good sense
He twisted like a Bob-cat
Caught in a barbed wire fence
Now I was grabbing leather
The reins were flapping free
And I began to think that this ride
Would surely be the death of me

Then I lost both of my stirrups
I knew that I was in a world of hurt
And that soon I'd get a mouth full
Of that filthy corral dirt
And that was when ole Blue Bird earned his name
I was still going higher while he was coming down
And they say that Blue Bird built a nest
In my hair before I hit the Ground.



by Lee "Lucky" Glasscock

A cowboy is used to being alone,
Just him, his horse, the sky, and the wind.;
And miles and miles of waving grass,
Today is just yesterday played over again.
Sometimes he sings, just to hear a sound,
Sometimes he talks to his horse;
But there's never a voice to answer back,
No counterpoint to his discourse.

He listens for the dogies bawl,
Or teh coyotes lonesome song;
Riding fence, or hunting strays,
His days are long and hard.
Long before the east sky brightens,
A half days work is done;
And his work load doesn't lighten,
Until the setting of the sun.

He can spend a month out on the range,
And never see a soul;
So he sings for comfort as he works,
and remembers stories told.
Or he makes up a tale of his own,
Some wild impossible thing;
That he hopes will bring a chuckle,
At the round-up in the spring.

Who is Lee "Lucky" Glasscock?

Lee "Lucky" Glasscock was a working cowboy from the age of 14 to 19 for ranches in Oklahoma and Texas. He left the cowboy life to join the U.S. Navy and remained there for twenty years. After retiring, He became a manager with a large department store chain. In both of these endeavors, he found that the lessons that he learned on the range served him well. The ability to endure hard knocks without complaining, finding the humor in any situation, and being able to see each person as an individual, were the corner stones that not only helped him to succeed, but also helped him survive. Now at the age of 63 is living on a small farm in Missouri, reaquainting himself with his former roots.

© -1998 All Rights Reserved.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Lee Glasscock.
Contact Lee Glasscock at: squids3@scan.missouri.org


Dal Brown

April 1998


by Dal Brown

She was little more than a colt when he got her
He broke her and trained her to run
With a lope that was slow and gentle That made riding her easy and fun.

She never did have a real name
Like Lady or Queeny or such
Grandpa just called her "The Little Mare"
And somehow the name sorta stuck

To look at she wasn't a winner
She was small as most horses go
But heart isn't measured by inches or hands
It's more by the effort you show

No job was too big with grandpa astride
She was equal to most any task
From early morning to late at night
She'd do what ever he ask

He loved her but you'd never know it
By the way he hollered and cussed
But you would when something befell her
And you watched as he doctored and fussed

Time came when he could no longer ride her
The old bones just couldn't endure
Then a friend convinced him to sell her
So's she could be ridden some more

They loaded her up and they hauled her
To a farm 'bout forty miles away Grandpa couldn't stand to watch as she left
So he went and fed the cattle some hay

He went to the other side of the hay stack
Tho I don't think feedin' was why
I'm sure he just wanted to be by himself
and maybe wipe a tear from his eye

But the horse she wouldn't be parted
It made us wonder how she would know
After traveling forty miles in a trailer
Which way she'd have to go

It nearly lbroke ol' grandpa's heart
When he got the news that day
The Little Mare had been killed on the road
Just seven miles away

She'd almost made it to the farm
Grandpa never quite got over it
She was comin' back to the place she loved
The day that she got hit

Grandpa's long since traveled on
To reunions up above
And I'd guess somewhere he's farmin'
That's the thing he really loved

And it's not hard for me to see
Way back in my mind's eye
Two companions, together again
Ridin' ranges in the sky



by Dal Brown

I've got a little farm up in Grassvalley
'bout eighty acres or so
I thought I'd have to give it up
The prices got so low

One day a gentleman came to the farm
He was from the government
He said if I didn't plant hay and grain
I could make more than I spent

It sounded so good, I signed right up
And was waitin' for the check to come
When I saw a government truck pull in
But this was a different one

"I've come about your cows", he said
"The price of milk's at stake,
Now we're gonna let you sell your cows,
And we'll pay you what you make."

I wasn't sure I'd heard him right
Could what he said be true?
Just sell lmy cows and milk no more
Was all I had to do?

I put my name right on the line
I didn't hesitate
The possibilities made me sweat
Well, I could hardly wait!

Two checks each month a comin' in
While I just fish and play
Bein' partners with the government
Is really gonna pay!

The money started rollin' in
And I was havin' fun
When another truck came up my drive
Another different one

"So your not workin'." The young man said,
"That's the reason I've been sent
We'd really like to sign you up
For un-employ-ment

Now I'm no fool when it comes to money
I'll never turn it down
So I signed the papers that he brought
And he drove off to town

When the first of August came rollin' 'round
Three checks were in the mail!
I hadn't worked in 'bout three months
But I was doin' well!

But I'm gettin' tired of fishin'
And those soap operas is borin' stuff
I think I'll go back to farmin'
Just as soon as I've saved enough!



by Dal Brown

Down on the job
The boys call him Bob
Or some names that we can't mention here

To those who come to town
When the prices are down
He's known as that "Damned Auctioneer"

He sets there on his throne
And to most little's known
About what's actually go'en on here

As you watch his tongue rattle
Try'en to make sense of the prattle
Just be careful you don't scratch your ear

I went in there on time
Didn't have me a dime
Wanted to see if he was good as I'd been told

I waved so he could see
He pointed at me
And said something that sounded like, "sold"

When I got up to leave
An old farmer tugged on my sleeve
He said, "mister that didn't make any sense"

I said, "What did I do?"
He said, "you just bid eighty two,
For a cow that wasn't worth twenty cents."

A farmer came in there
With his arm in the air
Had a cast from shoulder to hand

He soon left the barn
In a heck of a storm
Said he had to go mortgage his land

Then this dude from Nevada
Said he just had ta
Take in this quaint country show

He sat down by the guys
And begin swattin' flies
And Bob sold him a hundred or so

It' worth going to see
But take a tip from me
Just sit there and don't say a word

Don't swat the flies
Or wave at the guys
You might end up buying a herd!

Who is Dal Brown?

I was born and raised on a small farm in central Utah. Being the fifth of ten children, (seven girls, one bathroom) helped me develop a sense of humor and to look upon the light side of things (it helps get through the tough times). I am an avid outdoors man and do alot of hunting and fishing. I especially enjoy ice fishing and hunting for trophy elk. I have always enjoyed writing poetry and was delighted when I was first entroduced to "Cowboy poetry". I feel it an honor to be selected as your April poet of the month, and look forward to reading the poetry of many more poets in the coming months.

Dal Brown

© -1998 All Rights Reserved.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Dal Brown.
Contact Dal Brown mail to: dahl.brown@m.cues.k12.ut.us


Ron DeSantis

March 1998


By Ronald J. DeSantis (1997)

I could'nt wait to get home from school
and climb upon his knee.
Up on a knoll where the shade would pool,
that old buckaroo and me.
He'd come and meet me all decked out
in leather and cowboy gear.
He'd tell me tales of days gone by.
Those tales of yesteryear.
The times he wore a tim star
or fought indians by Custers side.
He may have streched the truth a bit,
but he swore he never lied.
I'd listen to tales of days long gone
and bounce upon his knee.
Together in our minds we'd go ridding back
that old cowboy and me.
That was many years ago
and that old cowboy is gone,
but through me his tales of yesteryear
will continue to live on.
We buried him up on the knoll
beneath a Cottonwood Tree.
Everytime I look up there
Grandpa's waving back at me.
Now, my own buckaroo can't wait to get here
and climb upon my knee.
Up on the knoll where the shade still pools
that young buckaroo and me...



By Ronald J. DeSantis (1997)

The clock was ticking slowly,
they still had time to run,
so little time together
Bobby emptied out his gun.
His wife sat rocking teary eyed
on her breast their new born son
"it's not to late for us to go"..
Bobby's oiled up his gun.
His mind was filled with memories,
the loving the laughing the fun
and the times they lay together...
Bobby loaded up his gun.
The bullets dropped in easy
one eye was on his son,
his stomach felt so queasy
Bobby holstered up his gun.
The clock rang out it's warning,
there was no time to run.
a final kiss laid on her lips
Bobby's moment in the sun.
They stepped out onto Allen Street,
the crowd began to run.
He gazed into the young man's eye's
Bobby's mind was on his son.
Someone, yelled "DRAW"
two shots rang out,
there stood just oly one.
One-hundred and five
in the noonday sun.
Dead fingers on Bobby"s gun.
The echoing from the shot and
a tear rolled down her cheek,
the noonday sun white hot,
sweet words no more he'd speak.
The clock was ticking slowly
there was no need to run
Bobby, forever there in memory
on her breast theoir new born son.
Ronald J. DeSantis (1997)



By Ronald J. DeSantis (1997)

It's off to the office
out across the frozen ground.
The firebox burned all it's fuel
about four o-oclock this morning.
The freezing wind
through missing chink
delivered it's winter warning.
I don't think that I can wait,
to the office I must go.
With the newspaper
tucked under my arm,
it's out in the swirling snow.
the snow is crunching
beneath my soles,
boot tread a long time gone.
Cold and wet soaking my feet,
but still I travel on.
I have to move a rock aside
to open my office door.
My paper work all done,
the newspaper crumpled on the floor.
The winter wind is blowing in
through the half moon on the door.

Who is Ron DeSantis?

My name is Ronald J. DeSantis I'm 48 yrs old. I have been a cowboy poet for about 5 years. I have my cowboy poetry internationaly published with about 40 pieces appearing in print to date. I have worked on five ranches throughout the Western United states including two in Arizona. The weekend of March 19th I will be reading my work in Cedar City Utah at a Cowboy Poet Festival. I am one of 100 cowboy poets invited to the event, and honored by the invitation. I have had my work read by other poets at the 1997 Montana Cowboy Poets Gathering. I thank you very much for choosing me over some very fine poets who have appeared on your web site. I do not take this honor lightly. Some of my work has appeared in The Tombstone Epitaph out of your town. Just last month, one of my pieces ran in it.

Ronnie D.

© -1998 All Rights Reserved.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Verlin Pitt.
Contact Ron DeSantis : mailto:DanDeJam@aol.com

February 1998

Verlin Pitt


By Verlin Pitt

It happened in the summer, the summer of my twelfth year.
I practiced ridin' calves, a rodeo was drawin' near.
Dreams of money, fame and fortune were dancin' in my head.
Sundown would end my practice, my rear end felt like lead.

My aspirations grew mighty as I topped out every one.
Confident in my prowess, to ride all to the gun.
Then, one day my cousin had a bull calf in the barn.
I figured I would try him, it couldn't do no harm.

They led that bull calf out and he was bigger than the rest.
I knew in that moment that I faced my greatest test.
But first I needed practice, he couldn't be that tough.
When they threw a rope around him, I knew I had the stuff.

After I had mounted, I yelled out turn him loose.
He came on like a train, he honked like a wild goose.
He bellered, bawled and twisted tryin' to get me off his back.
I had the darndest feelin' as I felt my rope go slack.

I reached up for my hat as I shot off through the air.
This calf was really mean, and he wasn't playin' fair.
Then, the lights went out as my head met a post.
I got up feelin' shaky and pale as a ghost.

Three more times I mounted and three times I went down.
Each time my head met another post it made a thumpin' sound.
Staggerin' and dizzy I needed a better plan.
Away from posts and poles with a softer place to land.

This time when I mounted I'd have 'em open up the gate,
And this time if he threw me, my head would stay on straight.
But when the gate swung open, that bull calf seen a hole.
He bucked, spun and twisted, he did everything but roll.

What that calf did next seemed like an evil plan.
Like a shot from an ancient catapult, I flew across the land.
There is a law in science sayin' what goes up comes down,
And as sure as there is gravity my body hit the ground.

I came down on my face in a well-placed wet cow pie.
A lesson to beginners, keep your mouth shut when you fly.
Kermit the frog was right, it ain't easy bein' green,
But a frog dives in a pond when he don't smell so keen.

Each man has a story and some of them are sad,
But that day with a bull calf is among the worst I've had.
This story has a moral as stories often do.
If you're ridin' calves in a pasture be careful what you chew.

* You have my permission to publish "Bull Calf" the poem is coprighted in 1994



By Verlin Pitt

Clyde and I were ridin' down the mountain in the fall.
We were right about that level where the trees are real tall.
The cows that we were movin' were movin' kind of slow.
It was late in the day, and the sun was sinkin' low.

Clyde was kinda dozin' when I saw his eyes get wide.
He'd caught sight of somethin' and kicked his pony in the side.
He parked his horse near some rocks and set there lookin' straight ahead.
Then old Clyde pulled his rifle, like he was gonna spray some lead.

About then I saw the creature Clyde was fixin' to kill,
A big, hairy somethin' standin' in some bushes half way up the hill.
It was pickin' berries and at first I thought it was a bear.
But it had a face like a man, the paw was a hand and a smell was in the air.

Just about the time old Clyde was gonna pump some lead,
That big creature stopped pickin' berries and turned its hairy head.
That ugly skunk was in front of us before we had a clue.
He grabbed old Clyde's saddlebag and bit it half in two.

He took out all his personals and found a whiskey jug.
He bit the neck right off of it and took a big old chug.
He must have like the taste of it cuz he drained the bottle dry.
Now that was real whiskey, and it got ol' Bigfoot high.

He grabbed Cllyde's rifle and made a pretzel out of it,
And then he grabbed his horse and jumped on top to sit.
That pony went plumb loco tryin' to throw him clear,
But ol' Bigfoot was a natural and seemed to have no fear.

If you're ever high up in the pineys and you hear an eerie call,
You can bet your bottom dollar it's a creature nine feet tall.
And if you're wonderin' at what he's wearin' as he bounces and cavorts,
Set you mind at ease ol' Pard, he's wearin' Clyde's jockey shorts.



By Verlin Pitt

On a rance near Powder River in the spring of Seventy-One,
A bunch of the boys were takin' it easy, after the work was done.
The smell of purple sage drifted in on a prairie breeze.
Layin' around the bunkhouse the boys were at their ease.

They spoke of days gone by and the money they had made.
One spoke of gettin' older and how the years just seem to fade,
But the mood of the day was broken when Ray was heard to groan,
"I look like a dang old coyote," God what a mournful moan.

Says Ray, "I'll tell you boys if you've a mind to hear,
My hair is way too long, it's clear down past my ear."
"I've got to get it cut the very next trip to town."
We all knew he meant business it was obvious in his frown.

Then, Bob off in a corner said, "Listen here old pard,
I can trim your locks it really ain't that hard."
"I've watched that city clipper, I've watched him clip that hair."
And so, the stage was set and set up with great care.

Horse clippers were the weapon on a shelf out in the barn.
A necessary tool if we mean to stretch this yarn.
Ray sat in a chair with a towel tied around his neck.
Bob oiled up the clippers and gave them a final check.

That first cut took some nerve and Bob showed he had grit.
He came up from the bottom as he made those clippers hit.
Then, right on down the side and clear across the top.
Ol' Bob just kept on cuttin' it seemed he'd never stop.

One side in the back was even, even with the skin.
The other side was longer, when the clippers threw a pin.
They searched around for an hour, oh, that pin was really lost,
But this haircut would be finished, no matter what the cost.

The missing pin was a problem, and it made the clippers jump.
Before, where they'd cut even, now, they left a hump.
Ol' Bob just kept on cuttin' an artistic, quilted look.
What he knew about cuttin' was never in a book.

Finally, Bob had finished, at least, that's what he said.
We all sat in silence, as we stared at poor Ray's head.
Where he had looked like a Coyote that roams out on the range.
He still looked like a Coyote but one who'd caught the mange.

Who is Verlin Pitt?

I was born and raised in Lander, Wyoming, which is located in the Wind River Range of the Rockies, bordering the Wind River Indian Reservation. In my life, I have traveled most of the West, and I'd like to say that I've never met any "Bad Cowboys." Although, I have met a few that could be labeled, "Problem Cowboys." I'm spending my fiftieth year in Wyoming, and I've seen a lot of good men cross that "Great Divide." I'm glad I took the time to listen, when they passed on a little knowledge or told a good joke. I believe my poetry reflects the essence of the "Wyoming Cowboy" and the "Cowboy Way." The influence of a legion of old Cowboys, living and dead, are the basis of my poetry.

I believe in the "Cowboy Way" and those who live the life, and still believe in the values and traditions of an earlier time. There are those who say there are no more real Cowboys, but I believe that as long as there are men who think independently, and rely on their own skills and abilities to survive, the Cowboy will never die. I would like to take this opportunity to salute the good men, both Indian and White, that gave me the attitude I have and shared their sense of humor. And that is who and what I am.

The poem "Bull Calf" is about me, when I was a kid. The poem "Prairie Clipper" is about an Uncle of mine, and the poem "Bigfoot" is...well, it's the honest to God truth. Alright! maybe a line or two is made up, but for the most part its true.

Verlin Pitt

© -1998 All Rights Reserved.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Verlin Pitt.
Contact Verlin Pitt : vpitt@rmisp.com

January 1998

Mike Mangun "Hoss"


By Mike Mangum

Let me tell you a story, (and I'll swear that it's true)
Of a puncher who thought he'd be a cyber guru.
He calls himself »Hoss«, (That's not his real name).
But he figgers he might just gain some virtual fame.

So he wrote a few lines of rangeland prose,
And gathered some more from some poets he knows.
And he bought a computer that cost more than his saddle
>From some slick salesman who thinks he's plumb addled.

Then he sat down with the books to learn all about it..
Hardware an' software, megs an' gigs, bytes an' bits.
Till his ol' head was a spinnin' and his eyes went crossed,
Like that day in the corral when from a colt he was tossed.

'Fore long, he felt ready for his journey to start
An' he logged onto the web to try out this new art.
It was awkward at first, but he soon figgered it out,
And stumbled into a chat line as he wandered about.

He met lots of folks, and some new friends he made,
Also some fakes who'd never make th' grade.
But the names they used, (handles they said)
Caused him to pause an' scratch his ol' head.

There were Dragons an' Lords, Gypsies an' Cats,
Underthings an' unmentionables, even a hat.
Warthogs an' Stonehearts, (strange sort of a game)
A few of the bravest even used their own name.

So a web page he decided was the thing that he'd need,
To explain his way of thinkin' an' show off his steed.
So here it is friends, (you can take it or leave it)
It's yours to enjoy, but please don't believe it!


By Mike Mangum

Here's to the pros, the best of the best
Who follow the circuit, never stopping for rest.
All united together, they are the PRCA
whos ranks you dream of joining some day!

You don't do it for money, but to stoke up your pride
you know you can't beat them boys when you rope and ride.
Oh you can hold your own and seldom get tossed
from some green snorty colt in the mornings hard frost.

You're tough & detirmined, solid and hard
all muscle and bone, often bruised & scarred
you give it your best, all that you've got
at joining them boys, you just want a shot!

Whether or not you make it doesn't matter a whit.
It's the trying that counts and you've done your bit.
So ride tall my friend and look up to no man
you've paid your dues, and made a top hand!


By Mike Mangum

We need some size on the rope,
let Ken be the anchor, he's got the bulk.
weak in the mind and strong in the back,
He can stop an old rip dead in her track.

We have a milker with plenty of savvy,
Dean'll milk any cow that's ever been cavvy.
Light on his feet and quick as a cat,
he can get milk from an udder plumb flat

I'll do the headin' cause I've got no brains.
Just stop the old cuss then give me the reins.
With one hand on her hornes I'll tip up her nose
and put a stop to any kind of fit that she throws.

Now the stock's in the chutes, with ropes over the gates.
and five other teams waiting to beat me and my mates.
They'll soon get a chance, for when the whistle does blow
all hell will break loose and they best not be slow.

Cause we got a team that knows just what is up.
we trust our skill & experience, and a little good luck.
we're young and cocky, a set of good hands
who can stretch and bounce back like green rubber bands.

The whistle just blew - and the world came apart
with wild cows, horns, ropes and cowboys alacart
across the arena, two ropes cross causing a hell of a wreck.
But our hands are full of dynamite with a rope round her neck.

The bolley old rip runs up the rope and tries to put us down.
But we step to one side and soon get her turned round.
Snortin and blowing and throwin a hell of a fit
she shakes and bucks, a thousand pounds of don't wanna quit

Now Ken's got the rope round his waist and braces his back
with heels dug in the mud, he'll take up the slack.
Like a statue he stands or a snubbin post
he's planted fast and ready for her worst.

Now I slip up the rope to tackle her head
but she meets me half way, wantin' me dead.
I dive on her head down there in the dirt,
and gasp as a horn rips the pocket from my shirt.

With bottle in hip pocket, Dean lends a hand
and together, we get her head up out of the sand.
now with my fingers in her nostrils and snot on my sleeves,
she trembles and shakes like quaking asp leaves.

Now that we have her stopped, Dean slips in from behind.
Both rear teats are dry, but the off front one is primed.
He soon has color in the bottle to show to the judge,
and he streaks down the arena with a yell and a lunge.

Now the race is on and It's gonna be close.
Cause there's a mexican with milk who don't want to lose.
The mex has him beat by at least half a step.
But Dean wont quit, cause he's got a rep.

With a yell (or a curse) he executes a neat skip
so his boot can slip out & give the vaquaro a trip.
that piles up this ole boy with bottle in hand
and leaves him there, face down in the sand.

Dean shows color to the judge, we take the win
for to get that far then lose is about the worst sin.
Cause you can bet that if the tables was turned
and Dean was ahead, we'd be the ones what got burned.

With trophy in hand we limp to the car,
throwin' her in gear we head for the bar.
To nurse our wounds and revel in the feat
cause tomorrows another show & we got to repeat.

Who is Mike Mangum?

Born in 1948 in Brigham city Utah, I grew up listening to the stories told by my parents about the depression years in the Jackson Hole Wyo. country. (My grandparents on both sides took out homesteads in the early years of Jackson Hole.)

After a stint in the army, My wife and I decided to pull up stakes and try our luck at the ranching life. We worked on several ranches in the Southeast Idaho and Western Wyoming area while we raised 4 great kids. During those years, I tried my hand at the rodeo game, but soon found that I was unable to survive at that game and settled down to the simple life of a ranch hand. About 1985 we left the ranch life for the security of a "town" job and settled in Richmond Utah where I became a circuit board designer by trade, and raise and train a few horses for my pleasure.

I've always been a lover of poetry, and especially cowboy poetry. My writing style comes mostly from my love of the old cowboy balads. One of my earliest memories is of my dad singing "Little Joe the Wrangler" to me when I was about knee high to a fence post!

Thanks for the honor of being selected as poet of the month for January, and hope that they bring pleasure in some small way to all who read them.

P.S. the poem "Cyber Cowboy" was written as a lead in for the web page that I am currently working on and hope to get up and running soon!

Mike Mangum "Hoss"

© -1997 All Rights Reserved.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Mike Mangum.
Contact Mike Mangum : hoss@n1.net

December 1997

Jim John


By Jim John

They say I ain't much of a cowboy
And I reckon they're probably right,
Cause I'm really not much of a horseman
And I don't like camping out at night.

I can't rope a cow or wrestle a steer.
I've never drank redeye.
I hate warm beer.
But a soft bed at night, now that I hold dear.

I've never been bit by a rattlesnake
And I don't like to gnaw on a bloody, red steak.
Beans flavored with dust and soot from some fire
Just can't make my spirit soar higher.

Yeah, they say I ain't a real cowboy
And I reckon they're pretty near right,
Cause my boots aren't always comfortable
And I can't wear my levis real tight.

I don't hang out with dance hall girls.
Stud poker was never my game.
I can't play the guitar or yodel
And Slim certainly ain't my nickname.

Herding cattle in blizzards don't sound like much fun
And I 'spect I'd just hurt myself with a gun.
I'm clearly not the tall, silent type
That made sure the West was won.

But -- But my friend -- I went to the Saturday movies
When I was just a boy,
And I learned all the stuff that really counts
From Hoppy and Gene and Roy!

Ya gotta stand up
For the things that are right.
Cowboys don't let bad guys
Win without a fight.

You take care of widows and orphans
Help out the weak and the old.
A man never cheats in his dealin's
And his word must be good as gold.

You see it ain't ropin' or ridin'
That makes a cowboy a man.
It's doing the things that he knows are right
And bein' the best that he can.

So --- they're wrong --- I am a real cowboy.
I know that deep inside,
And you can be a cowboy too
Although you don't rope or ride.

Just help out folks that need it.
Take trouble in your stride.
Bow your head in prayer to your maker.
Don't ever swell up with pride.

Live every day to it's fullest.
Don't pretend that bad is good
And even though you don't sing or shoot,
You'll live like a cowboy should!

Unpublished Work, Copyright 1997, James John


By Jim John

They stood there by the campfire
In the dying light of day
And none of those seven cowboys
Had a single word to say.

One by one they shuffled up
To try their luck at the draw.
Larry and Tiny and Toby went first,
But Big Jim got the short straw.

They each walked up and shook his hand.
Joe slapped him on the back.
Finally it was time to go And he slowly walked up the track.

He stopped inside the bunkhouse
Wrote a letter to his Ma,
Strapped on his forty five
And threw away that dadburned straw.

Jim stepped out on the bunkhouse porch
And took one last look around.
Then silently he saddled up
And rode slowly into town.

He hitched his horse to a handy post
In front of that dreaded place,
Then slowly stiffened up his back.
He'd meet this face to face.

He shuddered at the thought of it,
But the pride of the ranch was at stake.
His palms were wet. He was covered with sweat.
His chest had begun to ache.

Determinedly he mounted those steps.
Pushed open the swinging door.
A deadly hush came over the place
As he stepped onto that floor.

The man looked up from where he sat.
His eyes were hard and cold.
Big Jim stepped forward to face him.
He felt slow and tired and old.

There was silence for a heartbeat,
The man said, "You from the Rockin' J?"
Big Jim simply nodded,
There was nothing left to say.

He spoke, "So they finally faced up
To what they had to do.
No doubt they drew straws for it
And the short fell to you!"

"Well, let's get it over with,"
He said with a twisted smile,
"To teach ya'll bout computers
Is gonna take quite a while!"

Unpublished Work, Copyright 1997, James H. John


by Jim John

Many are the stories told
Of the gunfights of the West.
But no 45's or rifles were fired
In the battle of the best.

I offer here a tellin'
Of the mightiest clash of all
Where the only wounds inflicted
Were some bruises from a fall.

It started off real simple like
When Toby read a paper.
It told about St. Louis
And a seven story skyscraper.

Now that got ol' Tobe a thinkin'
That we needed somethin' grand
To show those other buckaroos
The "Rockin' J" was the best brand.

There weren't no need that he could see
For buildin' somethin' tall.
Cause out here on the open range
40,000 acres was thinkin' small.

So ol' Toby jawed at Larry
And Larry talked to Slim.
No one talked to Tiny
Cause his light burned pretty dim.

But life is often kinda strange
And can take a funny turn
When a feller stands awaitin'
And his thinkin' starts to churn.

So, it was Tiny that got it going
As he waited at the outhouse door.
"This one-holer just won't do!
We need us one hole more!"

Now ol' Tobe had him a vision
The greatest privy of them all.
It would have four separate holes.
One on every wall.

"Why shoot, there'd be no waitin'
To answer nature's call.
A cowhand could just mosey in
And pick his favorite stall."

But no sooner had they built it
And the door was painted red,
Than word came they was buildin'
A five-holer out at the McDonald spread.

This was gettin' mighty serious,
But these buckaroos was tough
And the "Rockin J" set out to win.
A six-holer would be enough.

The McDonald spread responded.
Their eight-holer was top-of-the-line.
But the "J" crew fired right back
With one that seated nine.

The McDonald hands bellied up
And built 'em one for ten.
But the "Rockin J" weren't quitters
They were sure that twelve would win.

But it didn't - not at all,
McDonald built one for thirteen.
The "J" hands built an eighteen-holer.
The fight was turnin' mean.

Now this battle coulda' gone on and on
'Cept for a truth that is clear.
A waddie is good at herdin' cattle,
But he ain't no engineer.

This privy had become quite a place
For cowpokes to gather round.
A place to tell a tale or two
While comfortably sittin' down.

Many was the big ol' yarn
Spun over that giant pit.
It could be where the phrase came from
'Bout sittin' round shootin' the ------ (you know what I mean).

But this structure was highly unstable
And one day it started to sag.
The cowpokes just ignored it
Till their back sides started to drag.

By then that privy was a'groanin'
And it was just plain too late.
With a SNAP-the whole darn thing collapsed
Sending eighteen cowhands to their fate.

They throwed some ropes down to 'em.
At least that's what I'm told.
But it was so dadburned slippery in there
They just couldn't grab a'hold.

They tried to tie 'em round themselves,
But they just kept slidin' thru
It's said those fellers spent nearly a day
Down there in that sticky goo.

At last someone built a long ladder
And those guys climbed over the brink.
But no matter how hard and how long they scrubbed
They could never get rid of that stink.

It seems the fashion of grand outhouses
Started dyin' that very same day.
Those mighty structures was abandoned
To fall down and blow away.

Yup! That was an epic battle.
One not to be forgot.
When the McDonald crew and the "Rockin J"
Fought it out --- Pot to Pot!

Unpublished Work, Copyright 1997, James H. John

Who is Jim John?

Jim John was born a Jr. in Chanute, Ks in '44. My dad was a railroader. But, in spite of that, I've always been a cowboy at heart. I think it just comes with having your roots in the West.

(My great grandfather died at age 101, one of the last surviving [up till then] Civil War veterans in Kansas. He was a blacksmith as was my Granddad on my Mother's side.)

I was drawing cowboys when I was 8. I knew who all the comic book heroes were --- Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, Lash LaRue as well as the movie ones. At eight my Dad died. We moved to Kansas City. Didn't stay long. It was just too big.

Moved to Wichita. A big town, not a city, with pure cowtown roots. I've been here every since. Never could draw a horse that looked like a horse. But I'm a cowboy in my heart and soul.

I'll send you along one more poem that'll explain to you as well as anything who I am. It's called "A Real Cowboy".

Thanks for the honor of being chosen cowboy poet of the month for December.

That's very special to me, Jim John

© -1997 All Rights Reserved.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Jim John.
Contact Jim John : jim@wch.org

November 1997

Vickey Stamps


by Vickey Stamps

He weren't short and he weren't tall

but this cowpoke could outshoot 'em all

he'd grayed with the years and the livin' he'd done

the battles he'd fought, and them he had won

he was one feisty cowboy beyond any doubt

Captain Stokes could ride and, Lord, could he shout

he'd bossed him a crew of many good men

he could tell some good stories now and again

he could stretch him the truth or bring it in near

he liked cowboy coffee and he loved cowboy beer

the funniest story that I heard him tell

was about a big storm that near blew him 'ta Hell

the worse of the century, so some folks say

he swears he won't never forget that day

cowgirl Angels was puring down buckets of rain

and the wind whipped around him on that lonesome old plain

the cows were a looking for somewhere to go

but there weren''t no where to run, wouldn't ya know!

so old Stokes got his rifle, "Old Betsy" by name

and he shot him a hole right up through that rain

he shouted and roared, "God, enough is enough!

make them Angels stop, 'fore I have to get tough"

how God musta smiled at this crusty old guy

with grit in his gullet and fire in hs eye

but someone got their orders and the clouds went away

captain Stokes is still bragging on what he done that day

us humble old buddies on this cowboy crew

know it ain't very likely that story is true

only "Old Betsy" and the captain can tell

of the night when the storm nearly blew 'em to Hell


by Vickey Stamps

Ask an old cowboy a favor or two

And I'll tell you what that old cowboy will do

He'll go squat by the camps fire, scratch his head

Get real quiet, Lord...You'd think he was dead

Say "I reckon I will" or "I reckon I won't

Cause I'm danged if I do, and danged if I don't"

He'll think on it some, and he'll gesture and pout

While he's trying to figure this favor thing out

Then you'll get right disgusted, ask somebody else

Give up the idea...put it off "on a shelf"

Then the cowboy you'd ask gets up with a grin

Starts what he'd left off doing again

Them cowboys are busy. They ain't got the time

There's daylight burning and cow songs to rhyme

There's them cows to punch and horses to ride

Real important things to a cowpokes pride.


by Vickey Stamps

Half wolf and some other mixture
mangy and nearly dead
the cattle drive boss had found him--hungry
half out of his head
He'd taken him home on his saddle
figured the pup wouldn't live through the night
but he'd rescued a real good scraper who had the know how to fight
Ben gave him the name of "Courage"
He still didn't think he''d stay long
for a trail herds no place for a dog to be
but the wolf pup proved him wrong
Courage padded behind the cattle
wouldn't let a single one stray
and at night he'd lay down by the master
standing guard till the break of day
They grew mighty close as the years rolled along
a pair pretty special to see
It was plain the love Ben had for Courage
just as obvious as could be
His double shot rifle in scabbard
Ben rode out seeking food for his crew
Courage went running behind him
for where the master went
he'd go too
Ben dreq a bead on a helfty deer
large enough to feed many men.
His shot rang out, alerting a bear
that began stalking this Ramrod Ben
The bear was a rogue and a grizzly
taller then him by a head
It was likely that were there a battle
the victim would wind up dead
It had been a beautiful morning
'neath tall trees
still green and damp
as Ben packed the deer on his Sorrel
and headed on back toward the camp
Suddenly from a clearing
came a growl from the savage beast
who had Ben pictured a victim and the deer as a double feast
He charged at his foe and Ben fell back
rifle gone when his horse shied away
He knew that he'd be a goner, for he'd met his match this day
Courage came racing from where he'd been
off seeking food of his own. He squarely faced off with the grizzly
putting his life out on loan
When Ben reached the horse and the rifle
and ran back to kill the bear
wasn't much left of old Courage
but a mass of bones and hair
Ben had been given the gift of life
he'd once gave his half wolf dog
Surely as there is a Heaven
Courage's name was placed in its log
One day old Ben would ride on, having reached the end of the road
Then riding his Sorrel to a Heavenly place
he would throw off Earth's heavy load. But for now
when the night is quiet, and fog lays light on the air
Ben thinks he sees old Courage
with his body of grayish wolf hair
The dog keeps riding tag on the cattle
looking up as if seeking old Ben
and stirring up old memories
of what life had been back then
Someday they'd again be together
ding herd on an Angel crew
Courage will lie down with his master
and rest till the night is through.


My parents, myself and siblings. are from Oklahoma. My home is now in Northern Calfornia, but my heart belongs to all of you. Love for my fellow man, the West, and cowboys held a high priority in my home, as I grew up. That, more then likely is why I write in the style I do, and why my feelings run so deep. I have a terrific husband, a total of 10 real and step children, and 14 grandchildren. I work full time and attend College two nights a week.

My mother is one of God's cooks. My father is a victim of the devastating disease known as Alzheimer's. They are not able to cheer me on, for this special occassion. I cheer them instead, for what they gave of themselves, to make me whatever I am today. God Bless all of you, Cowboys, cowgals and country kids. I wrote a book "For Cowboy's and them that love 'em," that will soon be ready for distribution. Thank you Ike, for the honor of being part of the "Cowboy Poet Of The Month"

Vickey Stamps

© -1997 All Rights Reserved.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Vickey Stamps.
Contact Vickey Stamps : vsatword@telis.org

October 1997

Ronnie Godfrey


by Ronnie Godfrey

The 4h kids and some of their moms were a sittin' on the fence,

of the pipe corral behind my house where I teach my horses some sense.

 They'd come to learn all I knew about training and riding and such.

They wanted to see a real cowboy a putting on the final touch.

The mare I was ridin' was smart as could be and usually had a good handle.

But today was her chance to prove me fool and dump me over the cantle.

She was standing there faunchin', fidgetin' and fightin' all my attempts to look clever.

When it comes to whether or not a horse can throw you, I've learned you should never say never.

Well my pride was broke, my rein was broke and my image had taken a hit.

But I'll have to say my body was ok because of where I lit.

Her aim was good, I had gained some altitude and Newton's laws were working for sure.

How some ever I'm alright and here today cause she threw me in big pile of manure.



by Ronnie Godfrey

A past time of mine is catchin' strays,

it don't pay much but it's good fun.

I have cow dogs solid in their ways,

of turnin' cattle that are on the run.

Get a horse and a stock trailer and then,

you can catch cattle too.

You'll have lots of stories to tell your kin,

when they come out to visit you.

I was helping J.R. look for some hogs,

that had moved into a nice neighborhood.

When he told me he wanted me to bring my dogs,

and catch a bull that was up to no good.

"T'weren't no hurry he's on some vacant land

that's part of the water control ground.

When you've got some time just give us a hand,

then we'll load him and take him to the pound".

Well we had it all made up to do this deed,

the next time we had a little break.

He was out there eatin' the grass and the weed,

and drinking from the water control lake.

Then J.R. called he was tense,

I could tell that he was a tad upset.

The bull made a hole in the Meachem Field fence,

but he hadn't crashed an airplane yet.

It was a matter of time till some rich man,

in a hurry to park his jet in it's place.

Would attempt to land as quick as he can,

and wind up with the bull in his face.

I made a run for the north side of town.

With my horses, dog and a rope.

When I got there the bull was down,

cause they had shot him in the bottom with some dope.

He was addled but got to his feet,

and was making signs of getting well.

I put a loop on him and took a deep seat,

and hoped I wouldn't have to drag him to hell.

Well my dog pitched in to give me a paw,

and bit the bull on the face.

She never let go of his nose until she saw,

his tongue and she grabbed it in it's place.

The bull was regrettin' the day he was born,

and wished someone would cut him a little relief.

I drug him to the trailer with the rope around his horn,

and the dog givin' his tongue lots of grief.

He jumped in the trailer and the dog let loose,

I think he was happy to be in there.

They slammed the gate and removed my noose,

and hauled him to a pen somewhere.

Now the runway is safe to take off from,

and the situation is well in hand.

But if your flying to Fort Worth take my advice and

be sure to buzz the field before you land.

© -1997 All Rights Reserved.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Ronnie Godfrey.
Contact Ronnie Godfrey at : ronnieg@txcc.net


September 1997

Jim Janke

My Campfire

By Jim Janke

My horse is grazin' on the grass
That stretches from the mountain pass
Through which we came, clear to the far
Horizon, where it meets a star.
My campfire.

My blanket's laid out straight and flat
Behind me where I put my hat
And gunbelt, carbine, saddle, too.
No featherbed, but it'll do.
My campfire.

The night is still; there is no breeze
My cheek to kiss, my hair to tease.
No wind to blow or bend out some
The wisp of smoke that rises from
My campfire.

The beans were good, I guess I'll say.
As good as beans can be today.
The sauce was thick, the coffee thin,
The bread so hard I dropped it in
My campfire.

I'm sittin' on the ground so near
The fire that I might burn or sear
The backs of hands or even face,
But I won't shift or move my place.
My campfire.

I like the heat, the light so bright;
It hurts my eyes to stare all night
Into the flames that lick and curl
Below the smoke, and leap and swirl.
My campfire.

Although there's no one here with me-
At least no humans you can see-
A lone coyote howls to tell
Me that the prairie's safe; all's well.
My campfire.

The silence let's me think and view
The world without the noise and hue
And cry of people, conflict, war,
And makes me cherish all the more
My campfire.

But dawn will come before I know,
And rest I need, so off I'll go
To bed, to follow all my rules,
To calmly sleep while slowly cools
My campfire.

© -1997 All Rights Reserved.

        Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed written permission of Jim Janke.
contact Jim Janke at : jankej@columbia.dsu.edu

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