| John R. Yaws ~
Houston, Texas
|
|---|
The Champion
As I walked in the door of my motel-
The first thing I heard was the phone,
The next was the voice of my mother-
She told me, "Your daddy is gone.
It's taken a week just to find you.
We buried him three days ago.
You haven't had time for your family,
You're in love with that damn rodeo."
Melissa was here for the funeral-
She left the kids home with her sis.
She said she was really heart-broken...
"I thought sure that he'd be here for this."
"She loved you, but you loved another...
So finally she had to go.
Sad that she played second-fiddle...
To a mistress you called Rodeo."
"I found your daddy last Friday...
He'd been out feeding the stock.
He was face down in hay and manure,
His face wore a pained look of shock.
The doctor allowed he'd expected...
He might die from a heart attack.
But his heart died in him a long time ago,
When he saw that you wouldn't be back.
Face down in a barnyard, I reckon-
Is the way that a cowboy should go.
When the kid that he wasted his life on...
Forsook him to go rodeo.
So ride, boy, for that's what you've chosen...
Some day you'll be sorry you did.
Forsaking a woman who loved you...
Your mom and your dad and two kids.
The title's the goal you're pursuing...
The god you're determined to seek.
But, son, you won't ever be Champion-
I buried the Champion last week."
�John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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The Things I've Learned
It�s been a lot of years now-
Since last I punched a cow�
I have to think (for self esteem)
I still remember how.
I haven�t been astride a horse-
In nigh as many years�
And I�ve almost forgot the sounds
Of buzzers and of cheers.
The man I shave each mornin�
Doesn�t look the way he did-
My youthful pride and arrogance
The lines of age have hid�
I�ve learned �life ain�t all taking-
There�s more at stake than �me�-
And bein� broke and foot-loose,
Don�t equate with bein� �free�.
I�ve learned �now� ain�t forever-
Tomorrow�s gone too soon�
That a smart mouth isn�t �clever�
I was crazy as a loon�
I�ve outlived most my family�
I ain�t had many friends.
The road of life is shorter-
And I wonder where it ends.
But I can take some solace-
In the fact I made my way-
And never asked for nothin�
But a chance to earn my pay.
And a place to spread my blankets-
As I turned in for the night,
And for a man to mind his business
And to treat me half-way right.
Now I think of roads not taken-
And the good advice I spurned�
But now I take my pen in hand-
To write the things I�ve learned.
�2008, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Days Of Working Cattle
"Powder River" working pens�
Rusty from disuse�
The squeeze chute�s sprung and open�
From years of hard abuse.
The branding oven�s rusted through,
The irons no longer there,
It�s heard its share of bawling cows�
The smell of burning hair.
The pasture fences all are gone�
The range been turned by plow.
The graze where I once rode and toiled,
All lies in peanuts now.
The cowboys all are growing old,
They�ve found some other trade,
But oft I sit and reminisce,
Here in the feeder�s shade.
I have to say I�m thankful,
For the memories of old�
The baking of the summer sun,
And riding in the cold.
The friendship of hard-working men,
Good horse-flesh �neath my saddle�
I would not sell my memories,
Of days of working cattle.
�2008, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Comin' Out The Chutes
Sitting in a caf�, an old man said to me�
"I know you fer a cowboy that much is plain to see.
I bet you sure can fan a bronc, and ride a bad bull too.
You sure put me in mind of me, when I was young, like you."
I didn't give an invite, but he pulled up a chair�
And pulled an old, black Stetson off, revealing silver hair.
"I hail from up in Idaho. Not fur from Cor'd'lene�
And asking for a bait of grub, shore goes agin the grain.
I used to ride the rough stock, and followed rodeo�
And made it to the Finals in '64, or so.
Age and breaks shore slowed me down, I fin'ly had to quit;
But lately I've give lots of thought to goin' back to it.
I think I've got a few more rides, perhaps one more go 'round,
I've know I'm old, I've got to try, before they put me down.
A few more miles I'd like to drive, fresh dirt beneath my boots,
I'd like to have a few more times, at comin' out the chutes."
I paid the tab, and left the tip; we walked across the floor�
I handed him a fifty, as we got to the door.
He grinned, and said, "I'm much obliged, I'll catch you in Cheyenne."
And climbed into his beat up truck, we never met again.
He more than paid the fifty back with his hard earned advice�
I know I've lived a fuller life, that's had a lot more spice.
A few more rides, a few more roads; new dirt beneath my boots�
Like him, I'd like a few more times, a'comin out the chutes.
�2008, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Drought
The prairie grass is short, and brown
The pastures, powder dry;
The stock looks like it�s losing weight-
A week short of July.
The April showers never came-
Nor thunderstorms in May,
�It�s likely to get purty dry�-
I heard one old rancher say.
Last year we got a foot of rain-
An inch a month, broke down.
No wonder all the tanks are low,
And cracks form in the ground.
There hasn�t been a cloud in weeks-
At least not from the west.
If there�s a hope for rain in June,
That direction is the best.
The unrelenting sun beats down,
The winds are from the south�
Until a real one comes along,
I�d sure call this a drouth.
�when it rains, it pours,� somebody said-
The same holds true with �dry�.
A man won�t likely clear a dime,
When he�s feedin� in July.
The worse you need to cull your herd-
The lower prices go�
You cain�t �give� a calf away,
Around San Angelo.
The grass is gone, the �pear� are scarce-
The �fifties� seen to that.
If there�s a thing the stock can eat,
I don�t know where it�s at.
The cattle business always was-
A little �hand to mouth�
But it�s �financial suicide�
When the country�s in a drouth.
�2008, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Arizona Nights
The winds out on the desert, in that Arizona land
Caress terrain unmarred by man, fresh from Creation�s hand.
The rocks in Texas canyon, emit an eerie sound,
You�d almost think that Nana and his band were still around.
The desert�s filled with bones and dreams� and ghostly apparitions
You�re apt to see, will surely hear, with all the right conditions.
It takes a heart, at peace, alone: no lover of bright lights
Will even once appreciate the Arizona nights.
The waterholes still beckon, and extend the hope of life-
Ranchos, long abandoned, from the loss of kids and wife�
The only thing that�s out of place, in this forgotten land,
His presence an invasion, of course I speak of �man�.
Man in his presumption��It all belongs to me!�
What of all the wildlife, that predates history?
What about the Indians: Apache and Dineh?
Mojave, Ute, and Pima, are they not to have a say?
I love to sit in darkness, far away from road and town-
And watch the Master�s palette, as the sun is sinking down.
And watch the stars a�twinkle, like a tapestry of light-
And peace pervades the stillness of those Arizona nights.
�2008, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Cowboy Up
When I was a youngster, Not more than a pup-
I learned an expression��You gotta, Cowboy up!�
While riding the circuit�That credo lived on,
If you had a broke heart, or you had broken bones.
As I grew older, and years took their toll-
My dreams started fading, of winning the �gold�
No �ten head in Vegas�, the �wolf of the world�
Had now lost his talent, his pelt was uncurled.
I finally faced the sad facts of the life-
I�d never had children, long since lost my wife�
The future looks grimmer, as I drink of life�s cup,
But I rise every morning, and �cowboy up�.
My joints are now aching from too many falls-
Somewhere in the darkness, an old partner calls�
Before many seasons, I�ll rest �neath the ground-
But I�ll cowboy up long as I�m lookin� down.
�2008, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Memories
My thighs are still hurting from gripping the swells-
My right shoulder aches every rain-
Bad knees and bad ankles are part of the life,
I hear there�s no gain without pain.
Ace wraps, braces, liniment� crammed in my bag,
Along with my riggin� and such�
I�ve heard an old saying, I believe that it�s true-
You can tell a cowboy, but you can�t tell him much!
Now I�m pushing fifty, and crowding it hard�
But I still love the thrill of the ride.
The adrenaline rush as I drop in the chute-
The gate when I holler, �Outside!�
The grunts of the broncs, and some of mine, too
The cheers of the crowd in the stand�
My reason for living for twenty-three years-
The lust of the rodeo hand.
I hate to admit it, but I�m growing old-
My dreams are all fading real fast.
No �ten head in Vegas�, nor shot at �the gold�-
Your mem�ries are all that will last.
�2008, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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There's A Hole In My Slicker
There's a hole in my slicker, it's startin' to rain,
With a blue norther ridin' the drag.
My cayuse don't like wind and rain in his face,
He's a sure 'nuff cantankerous nag.
I ride for my livin', and a poor one at that,
For ten bucks a day and my found.
And a bunk at headquarters which sleeps pretty fair-
Those few weeks a year I'm around.
I was raised in south Texas, among the mesquite,
But my old itchy feet had to go...
To find greener pastures, and now I am stuck-
On the old Llano Estacado!
No trees and no cover far as eye can see-
The thunder's beginning to crash,
The tallest thing on this whole prairie is me...
And the lightning's beginning to flash.
The cold rain has found that old hole in the back-
And the wet brings a chill to my bones,
I wish I could find me a barn or line shack,
Instead of be ridin' alone.
If the lightnin' don't kill me, and if I don't freeze-
I'll trade this cold rain for a drouth...
I'll draw up my wages, and load all my gear-
And turn my old pony's head south.
�2008, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Ridin' For The Brand
I think of all the years,
And lonely miles which lie behind me.
A lot of brute-hard work, back when�
I was a younger man.
And how we would evaluate,
The man who worked beside me...
If he were just a hireling,
Or was riding for the brand.
We'd saddle long before the sun
Would top the east horizon...
And many times, well after dark,
We'd turn the ponies out.
Rain or shine, sleet or snow�
Work had a way of sizin'
And measurin' the man inside,
As well as that without.
If he would pull his share of work,
And never start complainin'�
Breathe the trail dust of the drag,
And never cuss and moan.
His share of fencin', never shirk�
Nor balk when it was rainin'
He was the type of hand the boss,
Was likely to keep on.
That was the kind of man who made,
And shaped the place we live in.
Part and parcel with the place,
I call my native land.
If he could work from cain't to cain't�
And keep right on a givin'�
Friend, he was no hireling,
He was ridin' for the brand.
�2004, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Advice To Live By
I threw my riggin' in the truck,
Kicked the tire, and cussed my luck.
I hadn't made a dime in several days.
An old cowboy laughed at me,
And said, "Hey, kid! It's plain to see...
You haven't got the grit to make it pay."
I clenched my fists, and turned on him-
He grinned, and said, "Hey listen, slim-
Why don't you take the fight out on the broncs?
Just suck it in, and cowboy up-
And you might have a change of luck...
And stay away from bars, and honky tonks".
"You have to make a choice, you see"?
He took a long hard look at me-
"You stack up right, to be a ridin' fool.
So dust your jeans, then get back on-
Enjoy youth before it's gone...
To play the game you have to know the rules".
He said, "You ride the ones you draw-
And don't turn out the worst outlaw.
Just take 'em as they come, and do your best.
Mark 'em out, and spur 'em hard-
No matter how you're stomped, or jarred...
'Cause that's the code we live by in the West".
That was thirty years ago,
Age and spills have made me slow...
I never even learned the old man's name.
But I learned the lesson well,
Rode my broncs, and truth to tell-
I'd advise these young cowpokes to do the same.
�2004, John R. Yaws
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Buckaroos
When that foreman said he wouldn't buck,
I figured he should know...
Though he called cowboys, "buckaroos"--
And hailed from Idaho.
He said, "Rope, old Tex, that snip-nosed bay,
The pony's needin' rode."
I couldn't know the last five hands,
Who'd tried had gotten throwed.
I saddled up and cheeked the fool,
And found my leather chair.
That crazy bronc tried all he knew
To get me out of there.
He'd buck up hill, Then like as not,
Right off the other side.
That foreman laughed, and caterwauled--
And held his sides and cried.
He said, "Hey, Tex, he feels his oats--"
As he drug me 'neath an oak.
Then laughed, and said, "Where I come from,
We'd call that pony broke!"
The man who'd had the ranch was old,
He'd gotten sick, then died.
We were roping three years old,
To brand their wooly hides.
From can to can't we worked them cows,
A long, back-breaking day...
We'd brand 'em, swallow-fork their ears,
For very little pay.
But every time we'd gather cows-
My cows would get away...
All I could do, was try my best,
To ride that snip-nosed bay!
I have to say, that day I learned-
A Texan's sure to lose,
When the foreman that he's workin' for,
Calls cowboys, "buckaroos."
�2004, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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A Cowboy Till I Die
My Wrangler jeans, and faded shirt-
My bullhide, roper boots.
A dirty, silverbelly hat,
Show my West Texas roots.
Although I may be fifty-
I still have itchy feet.
And long to spread my blankets,
Where the sky and mountains meet.
I rode a lot of bad ones,
Back when I was young.
I've dug my share of post holes,
And, Lord, the wire I've strung.
I've saddled before daybreak,
Turned 'em out when moon was high.
And breathed a lot of trail dust,
Underneath the western sky.
I've blistered from the branding fire,
And froze while riding fence...
And turned down better paying jobs,
I didn't have no sense.
I wouldn't trade a minute,
Of my days of punching cows,
In a lot of ways I'm wishing
It's what I was doing now.
There's just something about getting up
To greet the newborn day.
Of catchin' up the saddle stock,
And feeding grain and hay...
They say I'm living in the past,
It's true. Do you know why?
No matter how I earn my pay,
I'm a cowboy till I die.
�2003, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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That's How I Want To Go
People often tell me-
There's an awful lot at stake.
For me to keep on taking,
All the chances that I take.
They say I'm getting older-
And slower when I ride-
I do not think they understand-
The way I feel inside.
If I can't give it all I have-
I will not ride at all...
They've all been telling me for years,
You're riding for a fall!
That may be true, I guess it is-
But there's one thing I know...
It's appointed for all men to die,
That's how I want to go.
I do not want to die in bed-
My body old and frail...
To be a burden on my kids-
Nor bore them with my tales.
I want to die as I have lived-
Footloose and fancy free...
Just roll me in a ditch somewhere-
And pile some dirt on me.
I think I'll keep on doing-
The one thing that I know...
If rodeo does kill me-
That's how I want to go.
�2002, John R. Yaws
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Last Of The Breed
Thirty six years of hard labor--
And nothing to show for it all.
A wife and three kids who don't know him,
He's crippled from many a fall.
He used to be tall, lean, and handsome--
But middle age spread has set in,
He has no companion or lover--
He's outlived most all of his friends.
I guess that his brand reads "West Texas."
He'll turn fifty-one, first of May.
Footloose, a drifter, a throwback--
To the West and her wild, wooly days.
He hung up his spurs back in eighty--
When injuries made him too slow--
To make a good ride on the rough-stock,
That he rode in the Pro Rodeo.
Out back of the chutes you'll still find him,
With advice that the young ones won't heed.
It's more than a life it's a callin'--
And he's the last of the vanishing breed.
�2001, John R. Yaws
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Leroy's Lament
Ol' Leroy looked across the cab-said, "Jack, I've been a thinkin'"
I said, "Leroy, don't go talkin' that away!
It's cost us dadburn near as much trouble as your drinkin'
We durn shore don't need no more fines to pay!"
Said, "What I think we need to do, is find another livin'
This cowboy life ain't what it used to be--
It seems that we ain't gettin' back, e'en half of what we's givin-
And just last month we both turned forty three.
Jack, I guess that neither one of us has got a callin'
Cept breaking broncs and workin some man's cows--
The music that we love the most is hearin' cattle bawlin'
That's close to Heaven as this life allows.
I feel stove up when I roll out on these old frosty mornin's
And topping off gets harder all the time--
My belly churns to smell the stink, at brandin's and dehornin's
My cowboy skills have kinda lost their shine.
I said, "Leroy, you start doin this each time you get hung over--
We've thirty miles to drive back to the ranch.
Your mind'll change when we begin to smell the meadow clover--
You couldn't quit if you was give the chance."
There ain't no other way of life, for guys like me and Leroy--
We've both the name of bein' a top hand--
Until we play our string out, somewhere up on the rimrock--
I guess we'll keep on ridin' for the brand.
�2001, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Tomorrow I'll Be Home
I rode out to the mesa, just to take a look around,
And there a few miles South of here, I saw the lights of town...
Why, I remember, pilgrim, I guess 'twas sixty-eight-
Weren't no one for a hundred miles, but me, an' Pete, an' Kate.
'Paches caught old Pete alone, down near the Creosote well-
By looks of what was left of him, his death was purely Hell.
An' Kate, she bore me three strong boys, 'fore she give up the ghost-
Of all the things the years have took, I miss my family most.
Comanches scalped my Billy, he had just turned seventeen-
An' Bob? He met a faster gun, one night in Abilene.
They wrote and told of Johnny's death, and, oh, the grief I felt...
He died there on that San Juan Hill, with Teddy Roosevelt.
The years have left me old and gray, a little stooped and bowed-
I stood my ground when I was young, I'll not go crawlin' now...
They say they're gonna take my land, I have no title right-
I bled for every acre, and I'm game for one more fight!
Some slick big-city lawyers say they're bound to bring me down.
I'll take the vultures with me, 'fore they put me in the ground-
One time they called us pioneers, when we were in our primes-
But now we're "cattle baron's" and we've far outlived our times.
They'll be here with the daylight, with a briefcase, badge, and gun...
I thought I'd make my peace tonight, I'm way too old to run-
So, Lord, I'm sayin' thank you for the years that I have known-
And won't you tell my loved ones that tomorrow I'll be home.
�2001, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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He Finally Made It Home
-Sequel to Tomorrow I'll Be Home
The vagrant breeze does stir his hair-
That's now grown thin and gray.
Caressing lines which crease his face...
As though to wipe away...
The hardship, grief, and worry-
Which carved each crevice deep...
Why! He looks ten years younger-
As if he were asleep.
His mattress is the Texas clay-
For which he slaved for years.
His bedspread is the new spring grass
Oft watered by his tears.
And on his feet, his Justin boots-
They used to be his pride...
It's only fitting, I suppose-
He wore them when he died.
And in his hand? Case-hardened steel-
He wore upon his hip...
He kept it rolled up in a trunk-
Until this final trip.
Concession to his loving wife...
Who'd preceeded him in death-
"Please, promise, Jack"? she whispered-
That was her final breath.
Last night up on the mesa-
As he stood beside the graves...
Of all but one of those he loved,
He lay beyond the waves...
He'd looked back down the trail of years,
As he had tamed the land.
With brute hard work, he'd claimed the place
And built a mighty brand.
He'd faced Indians, and rustlers-
And killers in the street...
He'd never bowed, nor was he cowed
Each challenge he did meet.
Till the crooked politicians-
Up in Austin, took a hand...
And with ink pens, and with law books
They finally took his land.
He met them at the main gate...
He said, "That's far enough-
There's not a man with sand to stand-
I've come to call your bluff".
Five rifles at one hundred yards-
Against one forty-four...
The rifles spoke, the silence broke...
Jack Ballard was no more.
It almost seems an eerie hush
Has fallen... sweet, serene-
His lips look like they're smiling...
As if some how he's seen-
A light in ranch house window-
After riding long, alone...
Though to us hid, I believe he did-
He finally made it home.
�2001, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Would You Stop For Just A Minute?
Would you stop for just a minute
So we can talk this over?
Before you take the bags out to the car�
Your plane don't leave from Dallas
For nearly three more hours
And you know the airport isn't very far.
I know I said I'd quit the road
For the last two seasons
But honey I just know I'll win the gold
I just have a feeling
I can't give you any reasons
And yeah I realize I'm gettin' old.
You're right, the rodeo's a game
For kids, and crazy outfits
You may be right, I fit the latter bill
My body feels the rides and spills
For weeks instead of days now
And yeah, I'm getting rusty at my skills
What's that you say? the nest egg?
You had hid in the cabinet?
Well, babe, I'm kinda short of entry fees
It's just a loan, I'll put it back
When I score big in Denver
It'll be back there next week, you wait and see.
Why, hon, I've never lied to you�
At least I haven't lately
I'm gonna win at Mesquite, Friday night�
And, yes, I know I got bucked off
At Gatesville just last Sunday
And yeah, I know I was an awful sight.
That horse could buck!-What's that you say?
I rode him twice last summer?
Last week I lost him coming out the gate?
Embarassed you? How about me? I know it was a bummer�
But don't you b'lieve in what we all call fate?
Why sure i love you, baby�
And have you seen my rigging?
Now why's your face agettin so durn red�
Look! Here you are a gripin'
Instead of bein' pos'tive
You oughta try to cheer me up instead.
Why, honey, what's the matter?
I just can't believe you're leaving�
Who's gonna wash and patch my old blue jeans
And pick me up when I break down
And be here waiting for me�
And fix a bite of beef and turnip greens?
�1999, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Make Your Bid For Eight
Faded Wrangler denims, Paul Bond�s on my feet-
Prescott in the summer, I can feel the blazing heat.
I won last week in Needles, the first time in a while�
By my mental calculation, that�s about a buck a mile.
Rodeo's a way of life, a way of going broke,
To win: it�s all or nothing, you can�t halfstep or choke
Pay your dues, and draw your stock, and blow out of the gate,
Ride him high, and spur him hard, and make your bid for eight.
Phone cards by the dozen, Super size your meals�
Breakfast at McDonald�s, your supper�s Burger deals.
Every dime that you can save, is gas or entry fees�
And still you call this freedom, and living as you please.
Trouble on the home front, you�re gone the whole year long�
And when she tries to reason, you sing that same sad song.
�I know this year�s the big one, a feeling in my bones.�
Some day you�ll pull into the yard and find that woman gone.
Yes, rodeo�s a way of life, or way of going broke . . .
To win it�s all or nothing, you can�t half step or choke.
Pay your dues, draw your stock, and blow out of the gate�
Ride him high, spur him hard, and make your bid for eight.
�1999, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Six Seconds
Mahan, and Hawkeye, and Freckles, and Gay�
Each of them made the Pro Rodeo pay.
Consistent "eight seconds" though oft riding hurt�
My average was six, and a mouthful of dirt.
I bucked off in Denver, then in Santa Fe�
Then at the Cow Palace, one cold, foggy day.
If it wasn't buttoned, I'd sure lose my shirt,
From riding six seconds, then biting the dirt.
I almost rode "Satan," a big, rangy bay�
Known as a "good draw" back in those days.
I was lookin' real good until I lost a stir'p�
I stayed with him seven, then plowed up the dirt.
I gave it my best shot, but I couldn't win-
I'd draw a "sunfisher," or bull that would spin.
I hung my saddle, although it shore hurt�
I was fed up with "sixes," and plumb full of dirt.
�1998, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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It's All Part Of A Way Of Life
Big, hot bowl of chili, to fight the cold outside,
My fifteenth cup of coffee, tomorrow night I ride,
My entries are in Denver, and I�m in Abilene�
A lot of hard and lonely miles, are lying in between.
I guess I�d better hurry up and get back on the road
Get my head together and in a traveling mode,
Plug in my old bird dog, and put the hammer down,
A lot of miles to cover, before the first go round.
Chorus:
That�s all part of a way of life, that folks call �rodeo�
Living from a suit case, and always on the go.
One year will age you seven, that�s one thing you can know�
It�s all part of a way of life, that folks call �rodeo.�
I broke three ribs in Casper, it really set me back�
I need to take the �average� to get me back on track.
Those wrinkles, and the gray hair, both say I�m getting old�
I�d like ten head in Vegas, and a chance to take the Gold.
I told my wife I�d quit the game, but that was �93-
She gave me three more years of grace, before she quit on me�
It�s like a raging fever, that keeps me on the go�
It�s all part of a way of life, that folks call �rodeo.�
�1998, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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