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Cowboy Poetry
THE HAT
Robert C. Atkin
The beaver brim hung for years
On a nail by the bunkhouse door
A silent tribute to an old cowhand
Who rode this range no more
Cowboys sittin' round the fire
Spinnin'ns they swore were true
It was outta one of these sessions
The legend of that beaver hat grew
'Twas said that he who donned the lid
Would ride tall among the rest
And the chapters of the history books
Would extol this hero of the west
But yet it hung in grim repose
No takers ; young nor old
Why would this relic of yesteryear
Make a cowboy's blood run cold
See the wind blew cool that Hallow's eve
Some fifty years before
The banshee's howled and witches prowled
To do the devil's chore
On that night a cowboy wished
To be endowed with skill and fame
Little did he realize
He was playin' old satan's game
A hat appeared beside the trail
A message tucked in its band
He who wears this beaver brim
Will be the finest cowboy in the land
And if ye choose to accept my gift
I too will exact a toll
For if you ever take it off
I'll be the keeper of your soul
The cowboy placed it on his head
There it stayed for a good ten years
He surely was the best cowhand
But was ridiculed by his peers
For they were non-believers
And chastised his pact with hell
Not realizing as a teacher
Satan taught his lessons well
On this eve of ghosts and goblins
They purloined the hat from his head
Now he rode as if a statue
Nary a sound uttered nor a single word said
As the demons that patrolled the hellish night
Surrendered to the awakening dawn
They hung that hat on the bunkhouse wall
Believing soon their friend would come along
But they never saw that cowboy again
And no trace was ever found
A cold chill fills the bunkhouse
Every year when Halloween rolls around
Ah yes; there is temptation
And some will fantasize
To take that beaver off its hook
And try it on for size
But in this place where life is hard
With men as tough as steel
There are those who scoff and criticize
At things you can't see nor touch or feel
They disparage those myths and fantasies
That make mortals cringe in fear
But not one has yet touched the hat
That's hung dormant fifty years
When werewolves growl and vampires howl
'Tis their night; October thirty-one
The devil and his trolls capture poor souls
And the unbelieving are prone to succumb
Take heed of these words ye who ride herds
And beware the eye of the cat
'Cuz old satan won't sleep and your soul he will keep
If you accept his gift of THE HAT
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