Hell Bent for Leather
The barrow pits were filled with grass.
My old brown Bronco was full of gas.
With my two basset hounds ridin’ drag,
I whipped and snapped like a flyin’ flag.
Around the curves, on just two wheels,
I was feelin’ like kickin’ up my heels.
I climbed a hill, and reached the top,
then slammed on the brake, tryin’ to stop.
Finally I thought to step on the clutch.
I slid to a stop, near enough to touch
the nose of a Hereford in the road.
just standin’ there like a big old toad.
Sweat poured down my furrowed brow,
as I stared in shock at that damned old cow.
Then, imagine my surprise,
when I lifted up my bugged out eyes.
Not a second cow, nor a third.
What I saw was the whole blamed herd!
Takin’ a stroll right down the center,
seemin’ to stretch from spring to winter.
My dogs were bellowin’ fit to be tied,
and frettin’ like their Ma had died.
I pushed my hand down on the horn,
cursin’ the day those cows were born.
I’d make ‘em scatter, I’d make ‘em flee!
No cow would get the best of me!
Although I was mad enough to spit,
it mattered to those bovines, not one whit.
I was thinking’ about getting’ my gun,
and puttin’ those doggies on the run!
I could feel the boilin’ of my blood,
but they just stared at me, chewin’ their cud.
Then one old lady sauntered up,
stuck her nose in the window and licked my pup!
About that time, from around the curve
rode an old cowpoke, with steady nerve.
He tipped his hat, said, “Howdy, Ma’am.”
That he held me up, he didn’t give a damn.
Beside his horse ran two ranch dogs,
not lettin’ those cows lay down like hogs.
Not a glance gave they at my bellowin’ brood,
They seemed to be tellin’ them, “You’re bein’ rude.”
I studied the cowboy, relaxed and loose,
mounted atop his trusty cayuse.
A lump the size of the Hoover Dam
arose in my throat, and refused to scram.
My mind took a side trip over the prairie.
I started to dream, but it weren’t scary.
Suddenly I was in my car no more.
I was out in the open, without wall or door.
A campfire blazed all cheery and bright,
keepin’ at bay the pitch-black night.
Off in the distance I heard the croon,
of a nighthawk singin’ to the moon.
The sound of cows all tucked in tight,
made the world seem friendly, and somehow right.
I know that cow camp, I just dreamed,
but the more I denied it, the more real it seemed.
The last of the herd was moseyin’ by,
when I came to my senses and said, “Goodbye.”
When I finally drove out of that place,
I took to the road at a kinder pace.
I still don’t know if that cattle herd
was real, or just an imagined word.
One thing I do know, with no doubt.
I’ll take life some slower, from here on out.
