My Very First Cowboy Poem Ever
I’ve wanted to write a cowboy poem in the worst way,
Which, no doubt, is how I would write it.
But since I’ve got the urge so bad,
I’ve decided not to fight it.
However, I’m not sure I have the standing.
Is it an awkward impropriety?
Do you have to be a real cowboy?
And not the drug store variety?
What makes a real cowboy real, anyway?
Is an eye for cowgirls sufficient?
If so, I’m certainly bona fide,
And, most likely proficient.
Are singer songwriters also cowboy poets?
Do they qualify too?
I’d say so, because all songs are poems,
Even if the reverse isn’t true.
Bob Dylan proclaimed his own poetness.
Townes van Zandt did as well.
But, if Billy Joe, Lyle and Willie aren’t poets,
The critics may go to hell.
Guy Clark says there ain’t no money in poetry,
And that’s what sets the poet free.
But what does he know? He even doubts
That “orange” rhymes with “Rosalee.”
On the question of verse,
Do cowboy poems have to rhyme?
Some say one that doesn’t,
Isn’t worth a thin dime.
But for more sophisticated poems,
This requirement is usually withheld.
Like the pieces of intelligence
Of the Zenmaster, Donald Rumsfeld.
Does having your heart broke by a cowgirl
Make you a poetic cowpoke?
Or is that criterion deficient?
Not necessary, I’m sure, but perhaps sufficient.
I know I’m not a real cowboy
But long ago I used to be,
When I rode with the Lone Ranger and Tonto,
On our first little TV.
KeMoSabi was my first hero
On that black and white TV.
Before old Tonto bought his boat
And took it out to sea.
Later, when “Dallas”
hit the TV screen,
I returned to cowboy heaven.
I admired the good girl, Pam,
But coveted the naughty Sue Ellen.
I’d never heard of cowboy poets
Before becoming a Texas contrarian.
But now I’ve met Red Steagall and Allen Damron,
But not the former large-animal veterinarian.
Baxter Black and Red are tops,
I’m willing to admit.
But I prefer Damron’s endeavors,
Because of his devilish bent.
His bleached blondes and broncos,
Are good reasons for standing tall.
He said he’d help me write my poem
If I’d just give him a call.
Because cowboy poetry is meaty stuff,
It’s not for vegetarians.
It’s even too big a chore,
For small-animal veterinarians.
One thing I’ve noticed about cowboy poems,
They use up too many words.
They have a disconcerting tendency,
To take nouns like “cowboy” and “rodeo,”
And use them as verbs.
Too many words, too many verbs,
And way too many nouns.
My very first cowboy poem
Never quite got off the ground.
Too much foam, too little beer,
Too much fear inside.
They have a good point who say,
“Don’t call him a cowboy, my friend,
Until you’ve seen him ride.”