by Dean Gerry
I listen to the rain, falling on the porch
the wind was blowing, the sky lit up like a torch.
I could hear the catle, shifting and moving around
the horses were nervous; rain beating on the ground.
The trees started to bend, the wind began to howl
I need to check the gates, I had better do it now.
The rain was getting cold, I was feeling kind of grim
the ground was awful muddy, the river up to its brim.
I wondered out loud, as I felt a little lame
what else could I do, ranching was my game.
There has to be something, that offers more to a man
than hard work & a pittance, that hardly fills a can.
I thought of different jobs, this old hand could muster
they were few and far between, and lacking any luster.
A job with money I need, time to lie on my back
I could be a poet, like Red Segal or Baxter Black.
I grabbed my pen and I started to write
but the words did'nt come and day turned into night.
So, I decided, My Fate, if anyone cares to know it,
won't be behind a desk, or being a Cowboy Poet.
