Bull 1, Dude 0!!

The ol' Brangus Bull was just a standin',
in the auction holdin' pen.
He'z bein' admired on all four sides,
by at least a dozen men.

OI' Shorty'd brung 'im in to sell,
He'd had to snub 'im tight.
To the stock rack in his Ford pickup,
the ol' bull put up a fight.

He'd been Shorty's pride and joy--
fer a dozen years or more,
but lately he'd been off his feed,
he'z a gettin' mighty poor.

He'd also turned right cranky,
just old age I would suppose.
The only way ya could handle 'im now,
wuz with the ring that's in his nose.

He's like a cross 'tween Mike Tyson,
an' a druggie snortin' Crack.
a ton of flesh, - an ounce of brains,
just waitin' to attack.

The ol' bull near run old Shorty down,
He almost killed the Vet,--
Who'd bet that he could pet the bull,
the Vet had lost that bet.

was plain to see that mean machine,
was nasty to the bone.
His breath was like a garlic clove,
with stale feedlot cologne.

But there at the cattle auction yard,
was a real live city dude.
Was plain that he'd been drinkin' some,
fact is the dude was stewed.

Well he just stared at that ol' bull,
then he spoke up loud and bold.
"Now listen gents, I'll make a bet,
that I can grab a hold--

of that there ring in that bull's nose,
and lead 'im 'round the pen".
"Fact I'm so sure I can do this deed,
that yer five'll get ya ten".

He carried on fer quite awhile,
and he had another beer.
He made it plain, of that ol' bull
he had not the slightest fear.

The cowmen couldn't pass the bet,
they all got in the pot.
The dude then stepped into the pen,
there on that auction lot.

He's brave as ol' Bruce Willis,
in a DIE HARD picture show.
As out of place as pancho Villa,
at the alamo.

He swaggered up to that big beast,
an' he reached to grab the ring.
What happened then was quite a sight,
a truly awful thing.

That bull moved like a yearlin' calf,
the dude let out a holler.
Like Bo-Peeps' sheep, where that dude went,
that bull was sure to foller.

I don't recall in much detail,
it was just a fuzzy blur.
The bull he won, the dude he lost
but of one thing I am sure.

That feller weren't scared of that ol' bull.
'fact, that's the epitaph we scribbled
on the headstone of his grave...

Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

    Paul D. Hatch      TOP


OI' Scratch an' St. Peter met at a ropin',
in the clouds 'bove the Golden Horse Spread.
OI' Scratch on a stud horse with fire in his veins,
an' a bright crimson blaze on his head.

Scratch'd sent Imps ta beacon St. Pete,
with a challenge Pete couldn't refuse.
The gauntlet picked up, the contest wuz on,
thru Heaven an' Hell rushed the news.

Lucifer wuz shrewd, cunning, an' mean--
consistent with His nasty behavior.
Afore he'd challenged St. Peter ta rope,
He'd stacked all the odds in his favor.

Scratch had in his Kingdom some real first class hands,
While St. Pete has kept most a the losers.
the first shall be last, an' the real top notch ropers,
had mostly been rounders an' boozers.

Those ropers in Hell had give their boss lessons,-
fore long he'z a beatin' the best.
The word had leaked out, St. Pete had heard,
He knowed he'z in fer a test.

St. Peter hiself wuz no stranger ta ropes,
while here he'd tied lots a nets.
He'd been a quick learner an' a shore 'nuff hard worker,
so not many wuz takin' on bets.

Pete an' his boys had agreed ta the rules,
Beelzebub's imps'd all done the same.
They'd all been given chores ta perform,
any failure an' ya'd forfeit the game!

The Heavenly Hosts constructed the grounds,
the corral made uv smooth two by tens.
A soft nylon barrier an' spring loaded gate,
crowned those Heaven made pens.

They'ze just one task given ta the hordes,
theirs wuz to furnish the calves.
The lopsided way the work wuz assigned,
wuz cuz uv all a the Lawyers Scratch has.

The contract they'd drawn fer their heathen Master,
written in language murky an' churney.
Pete'd sought ta secure a legal opinion,--
But in Heaven wuz nary a single attorney.

The teeny small print St. Peter had missed,
Written by these Lawyer type sinners,--
By puttin' the ropin' frum Midnight ta two,
they'ze shore they'd be the winners.

Their boss, after all wuz used to the dark,
frum thence came the souls that he'd won.
But Pete wuzn't dissuaded, -- midnight'd be light,
He after all had control a the Sun.

Well, the hands on the clock pointed straight up,
wuz time fer the ropin' ta commence.
Then one a the hands noted the stock wuzn't there,
noted too the hole in the fence.

OI' Lucie blew up, rent the ground with his claws,
frum his filthy ol' mouth shot some fire.
He accused St. Peter with an Oath most profane,
with purposely cuttin' the wire.

The Heavenly hosts all rallied around,
a head count wuz quickly completed.
Uv all the hands who'd come frum above,
nary a single soul wuz deleted.

Then Scratch called his boys ta gather around,
so'z a countin' could get under way.
By loosin' the stock He'd forfeit the ropin',
an' someone wuz shore gonna pay.

The count completed, he come up two short,
Scratch couldn't figger who it could be.
Then one a his Imps, probably missin' his pals,
Whispered, "Anyone seen Tidwell an' Dee?"--

Written about Dee Johnson and Gregg Tidwell who stole my fathers cattle from his "Golden Horse Ranch" while Dad was on his sickbed....... They were found guilty of this offense in a court of law. One of the biggest rustling cases since the turn of the century in Arizona..

Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



Me and old Fred, we had us a spread,
'bout a mile outside of town..
We'ze there fer years, just a raisin' steers,
on grass that wuz dry and brown..

We'ze a happy pair, didn't have a care,
we loved our laid back life..
We never complained, cuz we'ze neither one chained,-
to a gripin', naggin' wife.

It was one day 'bout three, we'd stopped 'neath a tree,
to have ourselves a rest.
I laid on my back, laid my head on my pack,
an' starred at a Robin's nest.

I'd just started to doze, when Fred, he arose,--
spoke not a word at all..
He left in a hurry, but shucks, I didn't worry--
I knowed it wuz just natures call..

As I lay 'neath that pine, why life seemed right fine,
but then Fred let out a yell..
Seems when he'd set, he'd been snakebit,--
right squarely on the tail...

Well, I loved my old friend, from his head to his end,
an' I wanted to help him out.
But in doin' what's right in the treatment of snakebite,
I had me the gravest doubt..

So,--I laid old Fred down, and I rode into town,
And whilst I rode, I prayed.
I had to have a talk with the old town Doc,
to get some snakebite first aid...

Well, I found me that quack, in his run down Doc shack,
He asked 'bout the snakebite location.
I said, "Doc, it's a cinch, if it was forward one inch,-
it'd have affected old Fred's pro-creation"!

Well, the doc knew fer shure, what was the cure,-
he said I'd have to cut---
with all my might across that bite,
there on my old pals butt...

Well, that sounded right good, but then as I stood,
he said, "without a doubt,--
He'll probably die unless you try
to suck the Poison out"!!!

Well now folks, that'd be hard, but he was my pard,
and I knowed what I should do.
So with what I'd learned, I then returned,
to apply what I now knew..

Well, it was more than plain, old Fred was in pain,
I hated to see him hurt.
So I rolled him around there on the ground,
and wiped away the dirt..

That bite was a fright, just an awful sight,---
my resolve just faded away.
Although he's near dead, Fred raised up his head...
"What'd the doc have to say"?

Now folks, if he'z bit on the ear instead of the rear,
or the leg or even the thigh.
I'd of cut on that bite with all of my might,
sucked and spit if need be till I died..

But there I sat in the sand, just holdin' Fred's hand,
and I looked him right in the eye.
I said, "I'm sorry dear Fred fer what the doc said,-
He said that you're goin' to die!!!!!!

Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Bob's belated bill..

The Undertaker's clothes were dirty,
the hearse had tires that were bald.
The casket was an old display model,
without the handles installed.

The service wuz long, boring and dry,
the choir wuz mostly off key.
The preacher, a weathered old Baptist type,
was making an impassioned plea.

He listed the virtues of the newly deceased,
his kindness and love he extolled.
He told of Bob's deeds he'd daily performed,
was a sermon to truly behold!

"Our departed brother", the sermon continued,
"was kind and gentle to all".
"Nary an unkind word or deed,
least none that I can recall".

"He was sober and sweet, a saintly soul,
he left us pert near without fault".
"In God's Kingdom he now resides,
no savor has leached from his salt".

Now I knew old Bob, we'd been pals fer years,
shared not a few Friday nights.
We'd chased a few wimmen, drank lots a beer,
got into some hair raisin' fights.

I'd last seen old Bob late Tuesday nite,
the card game at the Dew Drop Saloon.
I held the note fer the fifty he'd lost,
he'd promised to pay me real soon.

I had me a dilemma as I sat there a listenin',
the preacher commended ol' Bob to St. Pete.
Though I couldn't see it, if the sermon was true,
he'z already on Heaven's gold street.

Then I had me a thought, how I could collect,
on this straight flush derived I.O.U.
I'd find me a Xerox, make the preacher a copy,
in case what he'z a preachin' wuz true.

When he got to Heaven, he could look up ol' Bob,
collect the note and send me the cash.
If'n old Bob wasn't there, no problem still,
he could just throw the note in the trash.

I'd keep the original and take it with me,
case the preacher's sermon should fail.
No problem still, I'd just collect 'er myself,
when I look up old Bob down in HELL!!

Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Stainless Steel seat!!

I've had me some ailments, some real aches an' pains,
An ol' mare once broke both a my knees.
I'ze bit by a dog, an' once hit by a truck,
I once disturbed a hive a mad bees.

Ya should understand that pain an' discomfort
just ain't no stranger a mine.
So when I share with ya the wurst hurt I've had,
Ya'lI know I'm not one ta whine.

We had on our ranch a fancy two-holer,
'bout twenty yards out our back door.
It had lovely stained sidin', a wood shingle roof,
an' a shiny linoleum floor.

Now my wife in her zeal ta fancy it up,
hung a curtain with neatly ironed pleats.
An' secured frum Wards, at no small expense,
a pair uv shiny stainless steel seats.

Now folks come frum miles ta view our cute privy,
it wuz surely ahead uv it's time.
One a my kids sold tickets ta visiters,
he charged 'em each one a dime.

Well thru' that first summer we enjoyed our potty,
those lids were so comfy an' cool.
Ta wipe 'em off good with a clean wet towel,
wuz established as a hard an' fast rule.

It wuz one winter mornin' when natures' call came,
the mercury stood at twenty below.
I grabbed the wet towel, ran out the back door,
Ya could say I shore needed ta go.

I wiped that steel seat with the warm an' wet towel
an' I quickly plunked myself down.
What a relief, as I sat there on that throne,
I felt that l needed a crown.

Now friends an' neighbors, I'll share at this moment,
the pain that I spoke uv at first.
The hurt uv all hurts, uv all a my pains,
this pain wuz surely the wurst.

'Cuz when I got thru and attempted ta stand,
my butt wuz froze ta that lid.
Ta know uv my hurt, ya'd need ta be told,
just exactly what I next did.

I could a sat there an' froze plum' ta death,
or I could a hollered fer aid.
The embarrasin' nature uv this bind I wuz in,
led ta the decision I made.

I struggled an' squirmed, I shook an' I shivered,
tryin' ta set myself free.
The thought uv freezin' in this unique position,
share helped ta motivate me.

Well, I gritted my teeth an' mustered my strength,
in a flash I lept ta my feet. . .
"Least,-- most a me did but some a me stayed,
on that icy stainless steel seat.

So, next time I hear some woman complain',
'bout the pains an' hurts a child-bearin'.
I'll think ta myself uv that cold winter mornin',
an' the sound a my seat-skin a tearin'.

I'll take me some solace, an' feel more secure,
in three goals that I'm gonna meet.
I won't kiss a bear, ner jump frum a cliff,
ner set on a stainless steel seat...

Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



Twas Christmas day night,
when out by the tack shed.
A ruckus was raised,
that would wake up the dead!

Though stripped to my long johns,
getting ready to nap.
I streaked out the front door,
with just my long johns and my cap.

The light from the sparks,
of a dangling transformer.
Showed damage sustained,
to my east bedroom dormer.

I observed in a flash,
before the scene had been reached.
That the roof of my new barn,
had seriously been breached.

Though I'm reluctant to admit it,
my first onsite suspicion.
Space Shuttle debris.
from a burner out space mission?

When what to my bloodshot eyes,
showed itself.
Muy Muerto Reindeerus,
and a soiled old elf.

He'd hung up on a rafter,
still strapped in his sleigh.
I undid his seat belt,
checked to see if he'ze okay.

This bearded sleigh jock,
was 'bout two axe handles thick.
I weren't no believer,
but this must be old Nick..

While some of the reindeer,
had failed to survive.
Old Donner and Blitzen,
were both still alive.

Prancer bit the big one,
and Cupid had parted.
Rudolph's nose wiring,
apparently had shorted.

All in all I observed,
and of this I'm quite shore.
Half of the A team,
wouldn't fly anymore.

When the rotund one breathed,
his breath was a whistle.
Claimed he'd been shot down,
by a stray Navy Missle.

I suspected the culprit,
was Christmas egg nog.
When I caught old Santa,
doctoring his FAA log.

All of this carnage,
like a scene from MacBeth.
I guessed pilot error,
when I whiffed the elf's breath.

With his sleigh power diminished,
and a half dead consort.
To get him airborne again,
was of utmost import.

That fairy tale drunk,
with a gutsy straight face.
Inquired 'bout flying critters,
his reindeer to replace.

Chalked it up to the liquor,
or a couple of loose cogs.
So, being gutsy myself,
I said, "I got hogs"!!

So that chubby old feller,
set to work in a flash.
To rework the harness,
tore up in the crash.

He shortened the traces,
he re-strung the reins.
re-fit the sleigh runners,
he tightened the sleigh chains.

With some double A batteries,
retrofit Rudolph's nose.
Cleaned the cow manure,
from off of his clothes.

I knew not his plan,
but this jolly old soul.
Seemed jackass determined,
to get to the North Pole.

I brought him the Hogs,
he hitched them up tight.
The reindeer on the left,
the pigs on the right.

Then he laid him a clothspin,
'cross the end of his nose.
No, it weren't magic,
just the hog smell I suppose.

Now, you may not believe it,
but with a crack of his whip.
The sleigh, pigs, and reindeer,
flew off on their trip.

But life ain't quite the same,
since that Christmas nite.
Fer one thing old Santa's sleigh,
pulls hard to the right.

And my memory flew back,
to when I was a lad.
To be more specific,
a Christmas conversation I had.

I'ze asked about Santa Clause,
and I recall my reply.
"Yea, I'll believe in Santa,
when I see pigs fly"!!!

Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



My kids they all know it,
my wife knows as well..
How much I enjoy,
this season of Noel.

I brough 'round the window,
I garland the post.
String twinkley lights,
looks like Vegas - almost.

Then off to the Mall,
not a shop there gets missed,
my kids pick out the gifts
for each one on my list.

They'ze a special Yule moment,
for each one I believe.
Ma, now fer instance,
just loves Christmas eve.

The kids and the grandkids,
from the day they wuz born.
Have just naturally enjoyed,
pre dawn Christmas morn.

I too have a choice time,
in this season so merry.
My favorite Yule time,
is in mid January.

I clip the first coupon,
write a check to Bank One.
Time to start paying,
for last years Christmas fun.

The tree's all unflocked,
the last carol sung.
The windows de-broughed,
the lites all unstrung.

With the passing of days,
it's a comfort to find.
Just like last year,
it's back to the grind.

The stores become normal,
but you can bet they'll remember,
to re-decorate complete,
'bout the first of November!

And if all goes just right,
or maybe goes wrong.
I'm willing to bet,
it won't be very long-

Till, like a bad penny,
or an unwanted kin.
Like whiskers and nosehair,
it'll come back again.

This Santa Claus playtime,
and the Holiday cheer,
will hit again in December,
like it does every year.

And again I'll proclaim,
with my demented reason.
How much I enjoy,
this Christmas time season.

Yes, I really love Christmas,
Honest I do..
I especially like Christmas,
when Christmas is through!!

Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Ode to the Rodeo beast..

There's ugly rowel marks, long and deep,
from a hundred "Mark Out" spurs.
Put there by pseudo cowboy types,
for a grandstand of voyeurs.

Flankstrap sores plumb through the hide,
carcasses bent all askew.
Calves with broken legs and necks,
from some show off buckaroo.

Now I ain't no SPCA wacko,
but I'm a thinking it'd be right nice,
If a cowboy could get his cookies,
without a critter payin' the price.

Oh, there's pain and worry, right enough,
when a rider gets hung up.
And whips around there on that beast,
like a hurricane blown pup.

Or when a dogger overshoots,
gets steer tracks down his spine.
Unlike the steer, he made the choice,
he's got no room to whine.

Like Slick Willie, I feel their pain,
I don't relish a rodeo wreck.
But the cowboys weren't penned and forced,
they just ride fer the check.

I just suspect that when life's done,
and we get to judgement day.
I'm thinkin' that they'll be a time,
when animals get their say.

You rodeo boys had better hope,
that if this here is true.
Those animals will show more compassion,
than they got down here from you.

Aw, I know, "It's just a sport".
I've heard the line before.
From those who ride and rope fer dough,
and from the basic ro-da-o goer.

But tell me where the sport is son,
when viewed from in the chute.
If the steer or bull or horse could talk,
I think that they'd dispute.-

The spin that's put on rodeo,
there should be no pretense.
Ya suppose the animals would show,
if you'd just tear down the fence?

I heard a sage old rodeo hand,
his cheeks all bulged with skoal.
Ol' Jack's eyes were all aglisten,
as stories he retold.

How the broncs and brahma bulls,
each named and each unique.
Would tell of how they love the show,
if only they could speak.

Or how the ropin' calves enjoy
their task, or so said Jack.
"They don't really mind the pain,
when the twine man throws the slack".

Now old Jack's rendition'd not be so scary,
if he didn't think it true.
But not unlike most of his peers,
Jack didn't have a clue.

I've often wondered, if aliens landed,
from a galaxy far away.
Searchin' for intelligent life,
and landed on rodeo day.

They'ze scopin' out all the animations,
here on this old rock.
Tryin' to conclude which of the species,
they'd take fer breedin' stock.

Now I admit that human types,
ain't the best species fer a sample.
Especially since old Travis Walton,
had set such a bad example.

I'm bettin' that if it boiled down,
to a basic compassion test.
Those cowboy sorts there at that show,
would come in second best.

And I'm not sure, but I'd just guess,
that when that spaceship flew.
If the alien's goal was civilization,
they'd kidnap a four legged crew!!

Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



I put him out to pasture,
old Sam had served me well..
If he could only speak,
what stories he could tell..

Of long hot days at round-up,
of snowy frigid rides.
When Sam had took me there and back,
in sure and steady strides.

In early days he'd fought me some,
I'ze forced to use the spurs.
Seems he'd wake up every morning,
with a blanket full of burrs..

Oft times I'd fork the old McLellan,
and pull my Stetson snug.
Old Sam would turn his head around,
and give a horsley shrug..

I'ze tensed up like a fat hog,
at a sausage seminar.
Then he'd line out and I'd relax,
but not for very far.

Cause bye and bye as sure as sin,
old Sam would come un-glued.
I'd recite his genealogy,
in terms profane and crude.

Then the days turned into months,
the months turned into years.
Sam turned into a cow horse,
surpassing all his peers.

You ought not think he softened much,
there weren't no mush in Sam.
He's always like a spring thaw creek,
against a beaver dam.

But thru the years we'd built a truce,
we never wrote it down.
I'ze dumb myself, and Sam,-
couldn't tell a verb from a proper noun.

But neither Jocoby nor Myers,
with all their legalese.
Including "where-ofs" and "where-fores"
dotted I's and well crossed T's.

Ever built a contract,
with more of binding force,
than this agreement made between,
a cowboy and his horse.

I promised him I'd feed him good,
and although some may scoff,
he promised if the feed was good,
that he'd not poop me off.

Well, he's now reached his grandpa stage,
he's two score years plus three.
But age has been right kind to him,
like an imported rare chablis.

Some have urged I trade him off.
They just don't understand.
He's not just another common horse,
Sam rode fer the brand.

'Sides, I'm a hopin bye and bye,
when all my vigors fled.
The Man upstairs won't trade me off,
But perhaps, instead,----

He'll look down here and pity me,
He'll see I ain't much good.
But perhaps He'll see like my horse Sam,
I done the best I could.

Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



"I'll move that old boy I said",
Old Tom just grinned and spit.
He knowed when I'd tried that trick before,
we'd had to retrofit.

The tailgate on the gooseneck trailer,
the Powder River panels.
This fellers' horror film material,
an' I wanted to flip the channels.

I got this old hide three years past,
just goin' to feed him out.
But like a divorced inlaw,
or a case of the flaming Gout.

I couldn't get that old boy gone,
he'd put his roots down here.
This cranky, ornery, nasty, no good,
inbred Satanic steer!

I'd be willing to pee on a sparkplug,
or eat a mess of deep fried Rat,
if'n it'd help get this old boy gone,
I'd even vote fer a Democrat!

I still had me a steer hoof tatoo,
in a spot better left unseen.
where that old cuss vaulted the pasture fence,
usin' my butt as a trampoline.

My plan this year was foolproof,
after hearin' old Tom agreed.
The circus had just come to town,
an I contracted fer the Lions feed.

We drove that old steer to the Big Top,
his grizzly fate sure and certain.
We herded him into the Lion's cage,
and didn't raise the curtain.

I had me a feeling that those old cats,
would earn their supper tonite.
I knew that old crossbred well,
he'd surely put up a fight.

It sounded a lot like a Rock Concert,
both in decibel and in tone.
The bellerin' and roarin' reminiscent
of a night with the Rollin' Stone..

Then it all fell silent,
an' I'ze a cuttin' myself some slack.
'Cause like my stock market investments,
that critter ain't a comin' back.

That Lion tamer pulled the curtain,
so's Tom and I could see.
But that old steer stood there unruffled,
the Lions dead as old Elvis P.

Well, the Circus left town on Tuesday,
and, "My Nemesis", you might inquire?
Would I be stuck another winter,
with old Scratch's neutered sire?

The Circus trucks rolled by the ranch,
down my cheek rolled a single tear.
Bold letters on the side of the ex-Lions wagon..

Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Chicken named Rover!

Bein' a rancher can be a lonely life,
when yer miles from yer nearest neighbor.
It's nice to have a friend at the house,
when you return from yer daily labor.

Some a my friends got so dad gummed lonely,
livin' this reclusive life.
They plum' lost their heads, their freedom as well,--
they went and got 'em a wife!

Most cowmen I know, don't go quite so far,
'stead of a wife they get 'em a mutt.
'Cause a dogs' nice and soft, a sure 'nuff pal,
and if ya want, ya can muzzle him shut.

I've had me some dogs, an' I had me a wife,
the dogs died, and the marriage was over.
Then I found me a pal, she'z some like my "ex",
an ol' leghorn hen I named Rover.

She's a clever ol' hen, has a beak like a eagle,
for awhile I just loved that ol' bird.
She protected my place from man and beast,
seemed that my peace was assured.

When coyotes came a prowlin', or strangers dropped by,
she'd cackle and give me a warnin'.
In deference to gender, she'd perch on the fence,
crow me awake 'bout five in the mornin'.

She'd strut 'round the yard, her head in the air,
your could tell she thought she wuz Queen.
Then as time went along, and age took it's toll,
that sweet ol' hen a mine turned downright mean!

She'd set on the barn, jump down on my cows,
peck 'em till they started stampedin'.
Or perch on the fence, flap her wings like a copter,
she could keep my whole herd from feedin'.

That ol' bird finally done it, she went too dang far.
Was one Sunday when I'ze headin' for church.
As I walked out the door, with my new Stetson on,
ol' Rover attacked from her perch.

She lit right on my head, dug her claws in my hat,
pecked a hole right square in the crown.
Well, I grabbed me some feathers, they'ze attached to my hen,
she clawed me, and I throwed her down.

Now, I missed church that Sunday, somethin' come up,
I know that makes me a sinner!
But it takes lots a work, and careful preparin' ,
when you're havin' roast chicken fer dinner!!

Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Oh well, you get the idea.........

All you men and women out there who may feel a desire to use any of my poems, I would not only allow it, but would be honored by it. I write this stuff for my enjoyment, and hope it brings the same to others. So, I may have memorized some of yours and am using them at gatherings, so hope you feel the urge to do the same with mine.. If you don't find any you like here, drop me a note and I have a few dozen more which may be something you like..

I doubt you'll find much in the way of cowboy poetry that is any better than the stuff that a friend of mine from Snowflake, Arizona puts together. His name is Rolf Flake and he has been writing good rhymes for half a century. Rolf is a real honest to goodness cowman and his stuff comes from real life as well as the occasional fantasy. I'd recommend his new book to anyone wanting to read some good stuff that will help get the taste of mine out of your mouth. His new book is called "Cloud Watchers", and if you are interested, drop me a line and I'll put you onto it.

"Keep astride of the tree, both feet in the stirrups, and far enough back of the horn to maintain your masculinity"...

(You cowgirls figger it out yourselves)


If you like country stuff and cowboy poetry,
you'll love the pages at the

They were kind enough to include me on their pages!


His stuff ain't free, but it's worth the price. If you ever have a chance to catch him in person, I'll guarantee some of the best entertainment you've ever enjoyed! Baxter is also a nice feller who'll take a minute out of his busy schedule to visit and encourage.
He's kinda the "poet hero" of most of us wanna be's..

(928) 586-1077

Coyote Cowboy Company P.O. Box 2190 Benson, Arizona 85602

Tell him you found them from my website if you think of it.