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Cowboy Poetry and Western Verse
A Paint Cain't
By James J. Griffin
I was the new man at the Circle Bar J
Hired for roundup, I’d arrived that same day
Riding my own horse, my faithful paint Jed
An old time cowhand eyed him and said,
“Paints cain’t.”
“Paints cain’t what?” I retorted, fire in my eye.
“Cain’t do nothing’,” he spat, “why most of ’em won’t even try.”
“They’re useless in battle, no good in a fight,
Ain’t got no guts, they’d rather take flight.
Just ask any soldier, no spots on his mount.
He wants a cayuse on which he can count.
Worthless with cattle, paint’s can’t chouse a steer,
That bovine takes flight, he’s soon in the clear.
Given my choice of a paint or a goat,
I’ll take the billy.,” His voice held a gloat,
I reined in my temper, I knew he was wrong,
And Jed would prove it before very long.
I told that old hand,
“By the end of this day,
You’ll be proved wrong, for the drinks you can pay.”
I led Jed from the corral and tossed on my gear,
“We’ll round up those cows, on that bet a hat,
For when workin’ cattle, Jed’s quick as a cat.”
“That paint won’t catch one cow,” the old-timer jeered,
Jed replied with a snort, he spun quick and reared.
The Circle J Bar took in some mighty rough land,
That spread was no place for a rookie cowhand.
We spent the whole day chasin’ steers from the hills,
By mid-afternoon there’d been quite a few spills.
But Jed never wavered, he never would quit,
“That’s no hoss, he’s a demon,” Black Shorty did spit.
“No steer can get past him, no mossy-horned stray,
Jed and his rider, they sure earn their pay.”
To left and to right those cows tried to veer,
With my paint at their hips, showing no fear.
With ears pinned back, with a nip or a bite,
He warned them bovines not to try and take flight.
When the sun finally set, and darkness did fall,
We tallied the herd, counted them all.
“There’s more’n a hundred,” the foreman did call,
“And Mike with his paint hoss done penned most of all.”
I found that old-timer and said with a sneer,
“You still don’t like paints, well that’s mighty queer.
Paints can do anythin’ a good pony can,
There’s no finer hoss for under a man.
You think paints can’t fight, I must disagree,
They’ve fought hard in war for Kiowa and Cree.
At Little Big Horn, many a Sioux,
Ridin’ a paint, counted much coup.
Paints have helped settle this wild land,
They’ve been good pardners to many a hand.”
“I reckon you’re right, the oldtimer sighed,
“After seein’ your paint, that can’t be denied.
We’ll head for the bar, I’ll buy you a drink,
Since from these wild longhorns, your hoss didn’t shrink.”
“I thank you for that, but let me make clear,
I ain’t drunk hard liquor, for many a year.
So when at the saloon we finally do stop,
Make mine sarsaparilla, just a soda pop.
But for my paint Jed, lift glasses and cheer,
I’ll only drink soda, but he’ll have a beer.”
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