Cowboy Poetry: Stan Paregien
THE COYOTE HUNT Out on the Rocking J things weren't going too well. Fact is, old Jack Walters was plain madder'n hell. The coyotes were stealing his chickens left and right, Even though old Jack watched for them day and night. One summer evening the moon was shining like a silver dollar, And Jack had just gone to sleep when the coyotes commenced to holler. So Jack got his shotgun and stumbled out the cabin door. "Come on, Red," he whispered to his big dog, "We got us a chore." Now, boys, I'm here to tell ya it was one =09 heck of a sight. Old Jack, naked as can be, followed by Big Red into the night. They sneaked toward the chicken coop way out toward the back. And the closer they got, the more nervous and fidgety grew Jack. All of a sudden Jack heard something move and he stopped short. And his nearsighted dog, Big Red, moved up behind him for a snort. Red's cold, wet nose made poor old Jack jump and shout. He even dropped his shotgun in the dirt while dancin' about. Now the moral of this story, neighbors, is perfectly clear. Don't hunt with no dog big enough to cold-nose your rear.
Backfire
Way out in enchanted New Mexico,
Up where the sweet pinion grow,
On the rugged Sangre De Christo
A pack train traveled very slow.The leader was a mighty big man,
A forest ranger known as a talker.
Of nature's land he was a fan,
His handle was Elliott Barker*.He loved that virgin terrain
And enjoyed showing its beauty
To people simple and plain,
Or to big whigs, as was his duty.This day he had a special guest
Who rode close behind his horse,
As they climbed toward the crest
And high up the mountain course.His horse knew this narrow pass,
But it musta eaten moldy hay.
For danged if it didn't pass gas,
Loudly, every step of the way.The wind up there can be bad--
Tearing at the land so fair.
But this day no breeze was had
And the backfire hung in the air.Finally they reached a level place
And stopped for a needed rest.
The society lady in fancy lace
Dismounted at Barker's behest.Afraid her dignity had been hurt
By all that noise and stink,
A hasty apology he did blurt
As he sensed his face turning pink."I trust you'll forgive the smell
--a bad stomach ache, of course."
The lady blushed as her words fell,
"Oh, my, I thought it was your horse."
Copyright 1996
* Cowboy musicologist Jim Bob Tinsley was a friend of Elliott and his brother, the late
cowboy poet S. Omar Barker, and told me that story as a true one, at the National Cowboy
Symposium in Lubbock, Texas on June 1, 1991. I later found Barker's own discussion of the
event in his book, Western Life and Adventures: 1889 to 1970 (Albuquerque, NM: Calvin Horn
Publisher, Inc., 1970, pp. 282-83). Elliott Barker was the father of "Smokey the
Bear." As the state game warden of New Mexico, he took a fire-singed cub and promoted
it as a symbol of the need to protect the forest. I am currently working on a book on the
life and writings of S. Omar Barker.
Mail Order Brides
Henry sent off his letter in January of '21,
Blissfully unaware of what he had begun.
Rode his pony into town regular as could be,
But got no reply til near the end of February.The envelope was pretty and smelled good, too.
And it was postmarked back east in Kalamazoo.
He rushed outside to read it to his old horse.
Didn't need anybody else listenin', of course.She said, "I'll be on the train to your town
On March 1st, so please don't let me down."
That just gave him two days to get things straight,
So he knew he had not one minute to hesitate.The time came and he met her at the station.
Guess you could say there was no great elation.
When they met there was somethin' in their eyes;
But, boys, that look was pure-bred surprise.By the photo she sent, he expected a pretty young thing.
And the way she looked at him she wasn't about to sing.
"Truth is," she said, "that photo was really of my sister."
"Well," says he, "that big ranch I mentioned ain't no bigger'n a blister."That was quite a spell ago, and they had not one regret;
Though it did take awhile to fall in love after they met.
They loved together 47 years, despite the fact they had lied.
Guess that's not too bad for a cowboy and a mail order bride.
Miss Hattie's
Lester Potts had just turned sixteen
way back in 1887,
While trailin' cattle up to San Angelo
for the Bar-Eleven.
The old cowpunchers told him he was in
for quite a treat.
'Cause a feller could get most anythin'
on East Concho Street.
"Son," said the foreman, "there's old whiskey
and young women.
"But understand, boy, it sure ain't nothin'
fer the timid."
Now greenhorn Lester Potts was droolin',
just eager to be had.
"Shoot," says he, "until I get there
they ain't seen nobody bad."
The other buckaroos allowed as how
Lester sure was game,
But they all placed their bets
against him just the same.
They pushed their cattle to market
and soon as they got paid,
They rode like hell to Miss Hattie's
for Lester to get laid.
Miss Hattie's was above a saloon
at 18 East Concho Street,
And for head-to-toe pleasure
it couldn't be beat.
For Miss Hattie had ten beautiful girls
of every color and size.
And her most popular, blond Miss Sarah,
coulda won a prize.
Miss Sarah was undeniably good, but her
two-dollar charge was too much.
Miss Goldie quickly accepted fifty-cents
and took Lester into her clutch.
Elmo played the harmonica as she and Lester
walked down the hall.
Old Jim Mullins yelled, "If you need help,
boy, give me a call!"
The Bar-Eleven bunch settled down
in the parlor for a spell.
And while they waited
their almighty thirst they did quell.
They watched as several leading citizens
of the highest rank
Sneaked into Miss Hattie's through a tunnel
linked to the bank.
This bawdy house was special,
one of the finest in the Southwest.
Oriental rugs and soft feather beds,
why, nothin' but the best.
When the hour was up and Lester came out,
he was sure a sight.
Looked like he had come up the loser
in a bad barroom fight.
"Don't worry 'bout this kid,"
Miss Goldie said as she waved goodbye.
"Taught me a trick or two," says she,
with a twinkle in her eye.
And so the legend of Lester Potts
was born and grow'd.
He absolutely was not a great lover,
but only he and Miss Goldie know'd.
How on that sultry summer night
in 1887 they put on the best of shows,
'Cause they spent that whole darned hour
playin' a game of dominos.
The Rancher and the Mental Patient
A rancher was on his way to town one day
When a wheel fell off his pickup truck
In front of a state mental institution.
He got out and began cussing his bad luck.
A patient, looking through a fence, said:
"Regarding your plight, an idea I've found.
Take one lug nut off each the other wheels.
It will hold that wheel on until you get to town."
The rancher was amazed and to him said,
"I can't beat that idea with a stick.
But how is it that I didn't think of it,
And you did, when you're mentally sick?"
The mental patient stepped back a bit
And looked as if he went suddenly numb:
"Sir," said he, "I may indeed be crazy;
But that certainly doesn't mean I'm dumb."
Ode to the Weekend Rancher
Oscar Cauthen has a little spread
Out on the east edge of town.
He works as a computer technician
When the ranch he's not around.
Now, Oscar only ranches after hours
And every single weekend, usually.
And he has a lot of things to learn
About ranching in a way so gentlemanly.
Just last week he made the bad mistake of
Locking his 20" chain saw up in a 15" tree.
And when it comes to killing rattlesnakes,
He quit counting when he passed forty-three.
Already he has spent much more time
At the tractor shop than the coffee shop.
And his accountant says the ranch is in red,
Because those danged vet bills won't stop.
Poor ol' Oscar has had so many flat tires
That he carries an air tank in his truck.
Last week at the auction he bought a heifer
Which was a steer, so he's down on his luck.
Sunday he was hurriedly backing his pickup
Between some trees with his door ajar,
When a limb slapped him up side the head
And his new 10X Stetson rolled off afar.
However, Oscar ain't moving back to town,
For there's another side to this story.
Like the thrill of watching the morning mist
Rising over the creek on the north forty.
He will never forget the thrill of putting
His own brand on a heifer the first time.
Or of he and his wife and sons delivering
A calf under the midnight stars so sublime.
How can he ever describe to city folks
The joy of a walk in the woods in early morn?
Or of your family sitting out on the porch
At evening without sounds of siren or horn?
Oscar knows how it feels to sit in the saddle
Watching his own cattle at the setting sun.
His family saw four pretty does watching them
Having a picnic after the chores were done.
City life sure has its share of advantages,
And every weekend rancher knows that's true.
But there's no place like one's own ranch
To see God's world under a mantle of blue.
The First Buzzard
Two cowboys relaxed on the steps Leading to the local feed store. One spat tobacco at a tumble bug, While the other cowboy began to snore. Their solitude was broken when A dude roared up in a fancy sports car. He wore a double-breasted sports coat And pointed shoes made somewhere afar. The dude looked around at the town, Where not a soul stirred on the street. As he got of out of his air conditioned car He looked like he was melting from the heat. "Excuse me, gentlemen," the New Yorker Pointed toward the cowboys and said: "Tell me, just how long has this "Pathetic berg been declared dead?" One cowboy mimicked the dude's talk: "I'd say not too long, old bean. "In fact, not long at all I'd say. "For you're the first buzzard we've seen."
You can contact Stan at Paregien@bigfoot.com.
Also visit his home page: Stan
Paregien's Campfire
Last update: May 22, 1997