The Cowboy Urge
for Vessq
It happens, when the work's all done,
napping there below a tree,
the cowboy's mind, cooked by the sun
begins to think up poetry.
It starts out for a girl he knew
he met in town while out alone,
but ends up 'bout the sky so blue
or a mustang mare that he would own.
He never writes of dusty days
behind the herd, along the trail
or slipping in the cow pates
while prodding 'neath a heifer's tail.
So when you crit his little verse
and think it smells, like something died,
try not to make him feel much worse,
he only does it 'cause his brain's been fried.
[This message has been edited by Robert Swagman (edited March 07, 2002).]