I've posted this on other forums and wanted to share it here. It's one of my favorites. Big Ed's a comin" Now my tale is of the early years, when the century was new And the rankest critters in the Basin were cows and buckaroos. Picture a saloon in Prineville, where the liquor's flowing free, Where gamblers deal up faro and the girls smile easily. It's early on a weekend - maybe three in the afternoon, The pianer's playin somthin 'bout love and a silver moon. When suddenly the doors burst open and boys, it's a terrible sight... A cowboy staggers forward his eyes rolled back to white. His hands they fairly tremble and his face is chalky pale " I come to warn you, Big Ed's comin'... I seen him on the trail!" There's a moment of deepest silence, but before another breath is drawn, The bar empties out like a winter cup when the last of the coffee's gone. The barkeep, fresh from Ireland, stands frozen to the spot, Mindful of his immigration and having second thoughts. Now the windows start to rattle and the chairs begin to dance And the danger hanging in the air holds the barkeep in a trance. There's a sound of heavy galloping comin' down the street And ahead of it an odor like week old vulture meat. Crashing through the swinging doors and tearing out the wall Comes a grizzly being ridden by a man near eight feet tall. He's got a rattler for a bullwhip and he cracks it overhead. And the grizzly's got a logging chain between his teeth instead Of a snaffle bit and rein, and the rider draws 'em tight As he screeches to a halt and slides off to the... right. Two strides he's to the railin', and he growls to make his point, " Barkeep give me whiskey, the best that's in the joint. Now the Darbyman's been hidin' behind the tavern sink, But he hastens with a shotglass and pours the man a drink. With a look of raw impatience the stranger knocks it to the floor, Bites the neck off of the bottle and spits it out the door. He tosses back the contents and downs it with a swallow And the look he gives the Irishman is cold and grim and hollow. The barkeep says his rosary, he's thinkin' of his mother But trembling courage prompts his lips "Would you care to have another?" The stranger turns away in silence, he offers not a word, Then says "There ain't no time, son, I'm surprised you haven't heard. If I was you I'd close this joint and set my mount a'runnin', I'm just a step ahead of death... Ain't you heard?...Big Ed's a comin'!"
Written by Shel Silverstein | | Bear In There There's a Polar Bear In our Frigidaire-- He likes it 'cause it's cold in there. With his seat in the meat And his face in the fish And his big hairy paws In the buttery dish, He's nibbling the noodles, He's munching the rice, He's slurping the soda, He's licking the ice. And he lets out a roar If you open the door. And it gives me a scare To know he's in there-- That Polary Bear In our Fridgitydaire.
Here's another favorite: The Calf-Path by Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911) One day, through the primeval wood, A calf walked home, as good calves should; But made a trail all bent askew, A crooked trail, as all calves do. Since then three hundred years have fled, And, I infer, the calf is dead. But still he left behind his trail, And thereby hangs my moral tale. The trail was taken up next day By a lone dog that passed that way; And then a wise bellwether sheep Pursued the trail o’er vale and steep, And drew the flock behind him, too, As good bellwethers always do. And from that day, o’er hill and glade, Through those old woods a path was made, And many men wound in and out, And dodged and turned and bent about, And uttered words of righteous wrath Because ’twas such a crooked path; But still they followed — do not laugh — The first migrations of that calf, And through this winding wood-way stalked Because he wobbled when he walked. This forest path became a lane, That bent, and turned, and turned again. This crooked lane became a road, Where many a poor horse with his load Toiled on beneath the burning sun, And traveled some three miles in one. And thus a century and a half They trod the footsteps of that calf. The years passed on in swiftness fleet. The road became a village street, And this, before men were aware, A city’s crowded thoroughfare, And soon the central street was this Of a renowned metropolis; And men two centuries and a half Trod in the footsteps of that calf. Each day a hundred thousand rout Followed that zigzag calf about, And o’er his crooked journey went The traffic of a continent. A hundred thousand men were led By one calf near three centuries dead. They follow still his crooked way, And lose one hundred years a day, For thus such reverence is lent To well-established precedent. A moral lesson this might teach Were I ordained and called to preach; For men are prone to go it blind Along the calf-paths of the mind, And work away from sun to sun To do what other men have done. They follow in the beaten track, And out and in, and forth and back, And still their devious course pursue, To keep the path that others do. They keep the path a sacred groove, Along which all their lives they move; But how the wise old wood-gods laugh, Who saw the first primeval calf! Ah, many things this tale might teach — But I am not ordained to preach
I'm glad you like it Jennifer. I first saw it in a cattle magazine 15 or 20 years ago and it stuck with me. And it's so true how we follow established paths in our lives, even when we can see they could be better, rather than making changes
My first thought was "politics". People will choose their party based on one little aspect of that party's philosophy. And too many times I've seen people regurgitate their party line, even though it went against their best interest. But, thats what I party does. I'm a liberal who believes gun control is unconstitutional. If they look at the number of gun deaths each year, caused by LEGAL firearms, their statistics are telling you something very different. I also believe that if my confederate flag offends someone, I am more than happy to give them the opportunity to pucker up. But most people use the party to dictate a lot of their opinions, when it should be the other way around
MY favorite: Mary had a little lamb, His fleece was black as soot. And upon Mary's clean white bedspread his sooty foot he put.
When my daughter was a toddler, she loved that one and "There was an old woman who swallowed a fly." Everynight we had to sit down and read those two.
Really nice poems here! I want to share some of my favorites, but I can't recall them by mind, and these are not online. Of course, I have the book where they are written, one of the few books I keep in their original paper form, but if you could see the kind of mess around me, you would easily discover that I have not cleaned up the house for several days and you will absolutely right. I was confronting the potential risk to lose my actual home and not much time to find the book, but now that the risk has been conjured, I'm going to devote some time to find it out and transcribe two of my favorite poems
Its been a very long time since I had the opportunity to read it out loud (without looking silly for reading it by myself). But it wouldn't surprise me if, with a little bit of effort, I couldn't recall the entire poem. I just tried, and without cheating, I can't remember what she swallowed to catch the spider that wiggled and jiggled and squiggled inside her. But if I skip it and go straight to the cat, I can remember it.