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Cowboy Poetry and Western Verse
The Saturday Trail
By Patsy Anne Bickerstaff
When I was just a kid, me and my pardners rode the trail
Long dusty days, to drive the ranchers' cattle down for sale.
We'd sit around the fire at night, spin yarns, count shootin' stars
And hear coyotes wail. We sang, to mouth-harps and guitars.
We hunted buffalo and bandits, too. We used to ride
Up hills, down canyons; all alone, or at the sheriff's side.
We crossed the hot Mojave, with Apaches at our back;
And when the railroad came, our sweaty arms helped lay the track.
We was chasin' claim jumpers, just outside o' Cripple Creek,
When ever'thing went dark. The screen said, "Continued Next Week."
From Monday until Friday, we scriped two cents ever' day
For dimes, to join our heroes at the weekend matinee.
They roped an' rode an' 'rassled broncs and bulls an' evil villains.
They stopped train robberies an' rustlin's, bank holdups an' killin's,
Then waved their hats and rode out, "Hi-yo Silver, and away!"
They never looked for thanks or handshakes, never asked for pay.
They taught us honesty and courage; loyalty; compassion;
They showed us how to handle boots and fringe, and cowboy fashion.
We worshipped Audie, William Hart, and Hoot, like any boy,
And Marion and Leonard (but we called 'em John and Roy.)
Those movie cowboys showed me what a man's supposed to be;
I like to think they sometimes learned a thing or two from me.
I think they knew I held their fortune firmly in my hand;
They had to lead the kind of life a boy could understand.
So men and kids who never met were bonded by respect
And each one tried to live the way the other could expect.
That's hwo us small-town young-uns learned the secret of the West:
What cowpokes give each other can't be nothin' but the best.
We're old men now; the movie house was shut down years ago,
And in the century that's past, we've watched the cowboys go.
They've hung up spurs and saddles, laid down six-guns and guitars,
And now that big ranch in the sky is bright with shootin' stars,
And Silver, Trigger, Champion, Scout, that thunder's just your feet
Across those new-washed meadows, where the grass is always sweet.
So long, Lone Ranger, Tonto, Tom Mix, Roy, Gene, Hopalong,
We'll meet you at that last round-up, and greet you with a song.
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