Dear Me! What was I Thinking When I Wrote That Thing?

graphite drawingHere Lies a Loon

Once upon a tombstone

I read an epitaph

whose sentiments ridiculous

were prone to make me laugh;

the information set thereon

gave me to ridicule

the marker and the makings of

some great exquisite fool;

now lest you think me callous and

a soulless Frankenstein,

you ought to know the coup de grâce:

the epitaph was mine.

They Don’t Make Western Movies Like They Used to Make ‘Em . . .

 

 

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The End.

Those Big Death Scenes in Westerns

The slinger slung his monstrous gun

out of its well-oiled holster

she tried to dart from the couch and run,

but he shot her through the bolster.

She tried to duck his second shot

and they got into a tussle—

it didn’t help her cause a lot:

he shot her in the bustle.

She staggered around; began to totter;

still the gunslinger came

relentlessly on and at last he got her—

right in the final frame.

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Even though a cowboy’s socks can pretty much stand up on their own . . .

Something’s Afoot at the Fort

A Texas Ranger lost his boot

And all of us can feel

His pain at losing shaft and spur

And being down-at-heel

Without the custom stitching and

Tooled silver on the toe,

The steel shank inset and the vamp—

Where is a man to go

To get re-shod so perfectly

In style with stuff that wears

Like his cast-iron skillet, by

A boot-maker who cares

As deeply as the Ranger does

For quality and class?

I only hope the Ranger knows

That this pain, too, shall pass,

For down the street the Ponder shop

Has crocodile skin

And hand-tooled leather of all kinds

To tuck his tired hooves in,

And like a human’s farrier,

Will shoe him with perfection

In custom boots as soon as he

Gallops in that direction,

So go on, Texas Ranger, sir,

Get in and order boots

To save your poor hooves from their loss

In any style that suits,

From ostrich up to diamondback,

From white to black as soot,

And classy as a Cadillac

You wear upon your foot

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Nothing can compare to the perfect boot . . .