Well, partners, it’s been another rough ride on the prairie. I weren’t so sure we’d be able to rustle up a winner this week, what with how many terrible entries came ‘cross the line.
But a winner there needs to be, and that is:
Untitled piece
by Gary
Out in the dust field prairies of Dewsbury and Pontefract
The Yorkie badlands with rhubarb laden scrub tracks
Where scary predators stalk lonely unsuspecting riders
Those ferrets are deadly once in your trouser insiders
Old Cowboys on the trail for one last ride
Trying to avoid those wannabe Bonnie and Clyde’s
Clinging to a dying way of life like a stubborn Rooster Cogburn
Taking those pills for the constant bake bean farts and heartburn
Singing stories of the wonders of this cowboy lifestyles
While fighting the urge to scratch those lingering piles
Carrying the sweetheart photo of the long lost cowgirl
Forgetting she left you for an Accountant who could afford a pearl
All the ranches and rodeos have long since closed
Now 24 hour Big Macs are juxtaposed
Getting back in the saddle you do it for glory and the life which is true
But really the only excitement left is a solitary campfire game of Buckaroo
—–
Congratulations, Gary! Yer the most terrible poet of the week!
As is the case most times, I had a nail-bitin’ time namin’ just one poet as best. Mostly, I thunk, this was owin’ to how very diff’rent y’all took the prompt. I saw right smart ‘pproaches, dern awful ones, and many ref’rences to beans an’ how rough that old saddle is on a cowboy’s backside.
Gary’s poem won, overall, fer ramblin’ meter, ramblin’ subject, and fer those darned trouser ferrets. Trust an old cowpoke: you never wanna mess wit’ ferrets.
A’ course, this old judge really wanted to shake the hand of all the rest of these here poets. Go ahead; you’ll see what I mean:
Me & Fred
by Abject Muse
I’m ridin’ the range
that ain’t never gonna change
with my horse named Fred
Fred is red: Red Fred.
He’s my best friend
til the very end.
We set up camp
when nighttime comes
Fred can’t help
for lack of thumbs —
but I don’t mind,
that’s common in his kind.
I cook some beans
an’ throw in some greens
while Fred eats oats
that cause him to bloat.
And later on when coyotes howl
our camp is smellin’ foul
cuz beans an’ oats make us fart
it’s methane art
an aromatic symphony.
I’m a cowboy, see?
Red Fred an’ Me.
What people think, I don’t care
Long as I got clean underwear.
Fruit of the Loom is what I like
Cuz Jockey briefs are too dang tight
for ridin’ the range —
Just outside LaGrange.
—–
Wild West
by Pensitivity
The theme this week is Wild West,
OK then, I’ll try my best,
Saddle up and trot my horse
Heading West is best, of course!
Bump along in landscape sparse,
Get blisters on my sorry arse,
Campin’ rough in a makeshift tent
Moaning cuz all my money’s spent.
Coffee brewing on the fire
Tastes like mud, so really dire
Watch for rattlers, injuns too
Tether my steed, his name is Boo,
Scared of shadows but loyal to me
Dang it, I need to have a wee……
Ain’t got far, but I had a go
We’re not used to the life you know,
Central heating, warm beds and such,
Don’t really care for this very much,
Yet starry skies and open air
Are pretty and cool when you’re out there.
—–
Gold Digger
by Matt Snyder
gold digger jigger fa shizle yo
“This old wildcat’s as bad as Sal.
Now keep your shirt on! I mean… don’t get yourself in a tizzle.”
Spoken spitting like a true wild west un
That’s Gabby Hayes our high falooting pal
His only weapon the bottle
His breath knocked me dead full throttle
Hunting the yellow the specks worth a hundred
“All right all right don’t rush me, I’m-a-thinkin’ … and my head hurts”
Said Sam short on words
Wiggle my wiggle this poem’s a turd
—–
Campfire Quite, and Then…
by Trent McDonald
Quiet on the Plain
Gentle noises
From the lowing cattle
Cook takes his tin pan
Makes some noises
As he strikes it with a ladle
I wince in pain
My stomach makes noises
Slop and beans do rattle
Another cowhand shouts out profane
Screams with noise
The beans are ruining his saddle
No longer quiet on the Plain
Loud toots and other noises
The racket disturbs the cattle
—–
Yeehaw! Yippee yi yo kayah!
by Bruce Goodman
My horse’s gone lame
So I’m ridin’ a kangaroo out west
It’s a bit boing boing boing
So goin’ clip clop clip clop gets a bit messed.
Yeehaw! Yippee yi yo kayah!
My kangaroo’s gone lame
So I’m tryin’ to sit on the back of this hippopotamus
It’s a bit plod plod plod
So goin’ clip clop clip clop is a bit preposterous.
Yeehaw! Yippee yi yo kayah!
My hippopotamus’s gone lame
So I’m ridin’ a rockin’ horse through the desert
It’s startin’ to squeak something naughty
So I’m givin’ it a squirt of WD-40.
Yeehaw! Yippee yi yo kayah!
WD-40 worked like a charm
Now it ain’t sqeakin’ and rowdy
I’ll just tie up my rockin’ horse on this hitchin’ post
And go into the saloon and say howdy.
Yippee! Yippee! Cheers!
Yeehaw! Yippee yi yo kayah!
—–
The Cowboy Life
by Denny K
There once was a cowboy named Rex,
Who really preferred to be Tex.
This life with his horse,
Was special of course.
And easier to love than his ex.
—–
The Mad West
by Ruth Scribbles
West got mad
And sang
Don’t call me old
Yer mama taught u betta
Mama taught u betta
Mama taught u betta
The west ain’t old
Just mature in nature
Mama taught u betta
Go rope a cow
—–
The Internal Thirst
by Tiredhamster
sand…
sand…
dust…
The sun hangs over
As I ride my steed
Deeper into the valley
Hungry eyes lingering
On my head, wishin’
I was dead
sand…
sand…
so much sand…
This is the life
Of a desperado, an
Outlaw, a man without
Name or country, all i have
Is my horse, Larry, and the
Birds that fly over, taking
Bites out the sky, all because
I forgot to pay my tab
sand…
sand…
too much sand…
I’m no drunkard though,
I’m a free spirit, but sometimes
I gets a bit thirsty is all, not always
Sure for what though. A pain that
you can’t lasso or shoot at sundown
or avoid like Injuns in the night…
Maybe one day I will finds out
What this thing inside wants, maybe
Out here in the dreaded beige yonder…
sand…
sand…
more sand…
sand…
—–
Wild Wild West
by Deb Whittam
High noon
Whiskey swilling yokels
Voices breaking the shotgun silence
Painted floozies trip in the gutters
As dust hangs untamed
High above an eagle floats
Eyes seeking vermin
Even as a distant whistle of the train
Breaks his reverie
For a moment eyes strain
Horizon bending in the piercing sun
Then he spits his wad of tobacco out
Rubbing his brow as tumbleweed
Scatters down the street
Time to round up the brumbies
His gloved hand closes over the handle
Of the Walmart trolley
He turns
—–
On the Trail
by Michael B. Fishman
When ‘yer on the trail a-pushin’ cattle,
makin’ ‘yer way up to Seattle.
When saddle sores a-pop and ‘yer eyes start to droop,
and yer butt’s so sore it hurts to poop.
When yer bored watchin’ dust a-startin’ to twirl,
then y’all write a poem to yer old cowgirl.
Like I done did.
And I’ll demonstrate –
So you may equate –
And mebbe get yerself an idea that’ll pollenate –
One in which yer brain can lubricate –
And you can fay-ber-i-cate.
(Cuz you have my permission to do so)
Oh Maybelline, my horse needs a shoe.
Oh Maybelline, I smell like mildew.
I just a-wanted to tell ‘ya your love is overdue.
Oh Maybelline, I got a fever fer you.
Oh Maybelline, I smell like a gym shoe
I just a-wanted to tell ‘ya that first I’ll need a good shampoo.
Signed,
with aller my love,
Your luvin’ Cowboy guy,
Earl E. Earle
XXX (Them X’s, they’s kisses fer you, Maybelline)
—–
The Wild West
by LWBUT
Oh, give me a home where the kangaroo roam
and the beer and the and the Swan River flooooowwwwww.
Where jackaroo’s* herd with a helicopter or whirlybird
a fifty thousand strong head herd of emu’s!
Home, home on the plains
where the dust storms can last fourteen days.
Where the koala and wombat get ready for combat
with the crocodiles, dingoes and snakes.
The Australian outback, ancestral home of our Mad Max,
has a beauty that few ever find.
And at night after sundown, when you’re feeling totally run down,
looking upward will so blow your mind!
Home, home on the plains
where the dust storms can last fourteen days.
Where the koala and wombat get ready for combat
with the crocodiles, dingoes and snakes.
All these wide open spaces almost devoid of friendly faces
seem to stretch out for mile after mile.
The hot burning sun will fry your brains just for fun
and make you mad as a cut snake after a while.
Home, home on the plains
where the dust storms can last fourteen days.
Where the koala and wombat get ready for combat
with the crocodiles, dingoes and snakes.
If you lower your defences while you’re out fixing fences,
although you might start to feeling quite chuffed.
When you realise that you aughta have remembered to bring water,
but you forgot and now you know that you’re stuffed.
Home, home on the plains
where the dust storms last fourteen days.
Where the koala and wombat get ready for combat
with the crocodiles, dingoes and snakes.
* (jackaroo = Aussie cowboy, jillaroo = Aussie cowgirl)
Little known bit of trivia: My home state of Western Australia is over three times the land area of Texas.
—–
High Plains Drifter
by Jane Basil
A drifter came whose hooded eyes
bore a hole through town-folks faces
and though the distant cloudless skies
revealed no darkening, shadowed traces,
and dusty streets withheld a warning,
the tides of change were set that morning.
Puffed up folks with secret past
came dressed up all respectable,
but in his soul, his truth held fast
he knew they were despicable.
They placed a star upon his chest
and paid him well to do his best.
He vowed that he would free the gang
of an opposing, greedy clan,
then chose a stunted, clownish man
as deputy, to serve his private plan.
Yet no-one but this man could see
the mist that held a mystery.
Though no-one guessed his hidden aim
his friend came close and boldly did say
“Stranger, you never spoke your name.”
The drifter squinted and turned away
towards the boneyard on the hill,
where recall held his gaze so still.
The townsfolk rallied to his call
to learn to shoot a rifle straight;
he fooled the people one and all,
and then he ordered scarlet paint.
They dipped their brushes when he said
that they should paint the buildings red.
A heavy gang rode down the hill,
and stared upon a scarlet joke.
They came to raid and maim and kill;
amid the mayhem, the foreshortened bloke
recalled the townsfolk’s shameful past
and recognised the drifter at last.
Some years before, one rain drenched night
a man was beaten in the square.
Although he begged with all his might,
he could find no mercy there.
Declared as dead, they buried him
beneath the bone-yard on the hill.
Corpse and drifter were one and the same;
vengeance was wrought by the man with no name.
—–
I’m much obliged to y’all. Come on by the house after sunup, and we’ll fix you up wit’ another contest.
Gary: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner:
Chel Owens 