Faye Fox
Well-known member
"You know all my old friends, both cowboys and Indians, are six feet under, I said
Even the lonely cowboy doesn't know real loneliness, until their compadres are dead
Some died with their boots on while feeding cattle, and others from drowning sorrow
Alone in a tavern where emptied bottles filling with teardrops, time they couldn't borrow"
Well, that is all I feel like typing out this morning. The thing is very few working ranchers care about cowboy poetry anyway. It is a fading way old cattle hands entertained themselves around the campfire. Now with all the instant entertainment, improv campfire chuckwagon poetry is dead. Who wants to sit around a campfire and listen to the, made up on the spot, verse of cattle hands with maybe a harmonica adding a mournful sound? Very few, but put rehearsed and choregraphed verse, song, and such on stage with a spot light shining on entertainers gussied up in clean cowboy hats, boots, and western clothes, call it an important gathering with important people, and then many will go whether they give two fat stinking pack rat tails about the verse or not. If you have never smelled a male pack rat, then lucky you.
I could just make a post about my feelings this morning and probably get a lot of, likes and sorry to hear that and so on, but that isn't me nor is it the way I was raised. I was raised on cattle ranches, both Colorado and Texas, where conditions were harsh and barns were sometimes more comfortable than the ranch house. I wish I was making that up, but is the way my story shakes out of the burlap bag.
I was never allowed to whine, complain, or sow seeds of dissention. My father loved verse both cowboy and other, my mother lived by the word found in the Bible. Both were from old time ranch families. My dad and one great uncle, encouraged me to express myself with verse. Verse expressing concerns was not considered complaining.
One great uncle and aunt were fiddle players and square dance callers on Saturday night and full time ranchers the rest of the time. They had 10,000 acres in West Texas and it was no country for complainers. Like my dad, they expressed themselves with verse if it would be considered complaining if just in plain talk. I could have said, "When uncle spits tobacco across the room, even though he hits the spittoon, it is disgusting and it smells and makes me sick to my stomach." Such would lead to, "Well leave the room or fix your bunk in the barn and smell horse manure."
"Flying tobacco, makes a girl puke and sick to her belly,
As it rings true on the spittoon, and reeks so smelly
So out to the barn, making my new bunk, so lucky
The aroma is better than tobacco spat, the smell of horse pucky"
That verse would more times than not, earn me a bigger serving of peach cobbler. My auntie made the best peach cobble, picked fresh from the tree. After the hands tricked me once into eating a green persimmon, I didn't complain but had a new verse saying, "Oh go suck on a lemon or better yet a green persimmon." That went over better than, "Oh, go stick it up your pie exit hole, Bill."
When shaking out an old burlap bag, one never knows what is going to fall out.
Even the lonely cowboy doesn't know real loneliness, until their compadres are dead
Some died with their boots on while feeding cattle, and others from drowning sorrow
Alone in a tavern where emptied bottles filling with teardrops, time they couldn't borrow"
Well, that is all I feel like typing out this morning. The thing is very few working ranchers care about cowboy poetry anyway. It is a fading way old cattle hands entertained themselves around the campfire. Now with all the instant entertainment, improv campfire chuckwagon poetry is dead. Who wants to sit around a campfire and listen to the, made up on the spot, verse of cattle hands with maybe a harmonica adding a mournful sound? Very few, but put rehearsed and choregraphed verse, song, and such on stage with a spot light shining on entertainers gussied up in clean cowboy hats, boots, and western clothes, call it an important gathering with important people, and then many will go whether they give two fat stinking pack rat tails about the verse or not. If you have never smelled a male pack rat, then lucky you.
I could just make a post about my feelings this morning and probably get a lot of, likes and sorry to hear that and so on, but that isn't me nor is it the way I was raised. I was raised on cattle ranches, both Colorado and Texas, where conditions were harsh and barns were sometimes more comfortable than the ranch house. I wish I was making that up, but is the way my story shakes out of the burlap bag.
I was never allowed to whine, complain, or sow seeds of dissention. My father loved verse both cowboy and other, my mother lived by the word found in the Bible. Both were from old time ranch families. My dad and one great uncle, encouraged me to express myself with verse. Verse expressing concerns was not considered complaining.
One great uncle and aunt were fiddle players and square dance callers on Saturday night and full time ranchers the rest of the time. They had 10,000 acres in West Texas and it was no country for complainers. Like my dad, they expressed themselves with verse if it would be considered complaining if just in plain talk. I could have said, "When uncle spits tobacco across the room, even though he hits the spittoon, it is disgusting and it smells and makes me sick to my stomach." Such would lead to, "Well leave the room or fix your bunk in the barn and smell horse manure."
"Flying tobacco, makes a girl puke and sick to her belly,
As it rings true on the spittoon, and reeks so smelly
So out to the barn, making my new bunk, so lucky
The aroma is better than tobacco spat, the smell of horse pucky"
That verse would more times than not, earn me a bigger serving of peach cobbler. My auntie made the best peach cobble, picked fresh from the tree. After the hands tricked me once into eating a green persimmon, I didn't complain but had a new verse saying, "Oh go suck on a lemon or better yet a green persimmon." That went over better than, "Oh, go stick it up your pie exit hole, Bill."
When shaking out an old burlap bag, one never knows what is going to fall out.
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