He's an ornery old cuss, ain't never been rode,
fact we've nicknamed him old three point five.
That ain't exactly his grade average tho,
but the longest a ride stayed alive!

Fifteen hundred pounds of downright rotten,
he stood there just a snottin' and blowin'.
His right horn aimed east, the left one west,
he'd get you a comin' and a goin'..

From his flabby old hump to his stubby pig tail,
this here was a bull to behold.
So when Tom drawed his number, he knowed that 8 seconds,
would surely win him the Gold!

Two horses, three cowboys and a thousand volt hot-shot,
loaded him in chute number two.
Tom slipped on the rope, burned in the rosin,
and prayed before giving the cue.

"Help me, Oh Lord, as I make this attempt,
to ride this rank old bull."
"Whatever you do, if I ride or I don't,
bless me to look real cool."

Well, the ride went right good, right up to the point,
that old Tom bravely hollered "OUT".
Then the clouds built up quick, and thunder crashed,
and Tom began to doubt,---

that he could survive this dreadful experience,
he knowed that he weren't no match,
for three quarter tons of loose hided nasty,
his shirt hung on the gate latch.

Then it got serious, that old bull started twistin',
backed Tom off of his string.
He forgot right then about winnin' the money,
survival became the prime thing..

Tom alternately rode from bull stem to stern,
and purt near every part in between.
The older hands at the show later reported,
this was the wildest they'd ever seen.

The ride ended abruptly when old Tom went off,
but his hung up hand broke his fall.
Then it was time for the rag doll show,
Tom played the part of the doll..

The clowns joined in to help this bull jock,
keep hisself attached to his arm.
Kinda like goldfish pesterin' a whale,
or a mosquito mini-swarm.

Tom flopped back and forth 'tween cranky bull legs,
like Bob Ross a cleanin' his brush.
Then he finally broke loose, lay there in the arena,
like a puddle of cracked wheat mush.

The ambulance came in and hauled him away,
to the clinic fer bull rider patchin'.
The team of sawbones had to view a schematic,
to aid in the re-attachin'.

Three ribs had been broke, his whip had been lashed,
his spleen and his kidney swapped places.
They hooked up every part the ambulance delivered,
but still they's some vacant spaces.

X-rays and probin', and consulting some colleagues,
Then to the old M.R.I.
The brain scan showed a grey matter deficit,
The surgeons was stumped as to why.

Then they compared the brain bulk of old Tom,
with the R.C.A. average cowhand.
Turned out that Tom was about three IQ points higher,
than the rest out in rodeo land.

It looked fer awhile that Kervorkian was needed,
then the medics announced he'd survive.
Tom's wife came to visit what remained of her man,
she's so happy to have him alive.

She told him she loved him and he motioned her close,
he's too weak to speak out loud.
'Sides, Tom was too macho, and his wife knew he'd not say,
such mushiness while they'ze a crowd.

She expected endearments from what's left of her man,
as she leaned down to catch every sound.
"They'ze a big bull-o-rama in Willcox next week,
sign me up fer the go-around"!!

Just as a note, my hometown is Taylor, Arizona! You might recognize that town as the hometown as well of the 2000 PRCA WORLD CHAMPION Bull Rider -- CODY HANCOCK! We're proud of Cody's riding..

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



Ain't nothin' like a three year old,
to cause a man to ponder..
'Bout earth and sky, the sun and moon,
and other stuff out yonder.

They'll ask you what holds up the clouds,
and just how a bird can fly.-
You give an in depth text book answer,
they'll simply reply, "Why?"

Or they may ask where they came from,
or how or where or when?
And tho you try to satisfy,
here comes that "Why?" again.

That "Why" thing of a simple child,
we'd do well to emulate.
"Cause only when we wonder why,
do we open up the gate---

"Tween God and us, his stranded kids,
lost and tryin' to find.
Our way back home, and where that's at,
and why we'ze left behind.

As we ponder all these "Why's",
the where's, the when's and who.
We read a bit, we ask around,
then we finally pray it through.

We'd like to know where it began,
just what we're doin' here.
Not unlike that three year old,
the answers ain't too clear.

But like a hard wheat dry land farmer,
we keep on keepin' on.
The blanks start slowly fillin' in,
the truth begins to dawn!

We come to know, at least a bit,
of the things that God has planned.
For each of us as we sojourn,
in this bleak terrestrial land.

Then by and by the clouds dispel,
the answers firm right up.
We wonder less, our thirst is quenched,
as God fills up our cup.

So all take heart and keep on ploddin',
tho life's path is rough and stoney.
God helps us find our way back home,
with this thing called Testimony!!

Wrote this little poem, and though I know it don't fit in the "cowboy poetry" mold, it is one that comes a bit more from the heart. My Testimony is that small thing that makes me want to do better and though I fail more than I succeed, I still want to keep trying.

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



I first cut the track, about two miles back,
of Leverton's western line fence.
It was just breakin' dawn, and the cobweb's was gone,
my mind was alert and intense.

This sign that I struck, was from a monster buck,
that was easy to recognize..
So I lined myself out, like a spooked native trout,
I'ze determined to bag this prize.

Before I further converse, in this rhythmic verse,
I'll share my Nimrod resume.
'Cause I been around, like a long-toothed old hound,
I'm a real huntin' "Green Beret"..

In the taverns and bars, I'd give seminars,
like Jack O'conner would do.
I'd often opine, on all wildlife sign,
from here to Kalamazoo.

When I was a teen, the competition was keen,
'tween the families in my home town.
There was the Willis crew, and the Hancock clan too,
vying for the trophy buck crown.

And if that wasn't enough, to make it more tough,
There was Trapper and Gary Hatch.
Like a dog with fleas, or quad amputees,
They'ze a itch that was hard to scratch.

The Vern Hatch genealogy, had no need for apology,
we had a certain standin' in Taylor.
But if me an' my kin really wanted to win
we had the "A" team we nick named "Trailer".

Though not meaning to boast, I'ze once made the toast
of a Boone and Crockett affair.
It had involved a dark night, and a Wal-mart spotlight,
Well,-- I'll just leave it there.

So now I've confessed, and also digressed,
from my mule deer stalking tale.
Well, he left a huge track, like a hum-v in Iraq,
I could follow this old buck in Braille.

Past the point of the mountain, fer miles, but who's countin'?,
This monster led me along.
By the old Hatch homestead, he'd attempted to bed,
the spoor was a gettin' strong.

When daylight was gone, dry camped until dawn,
I'ze cold as Iatollahs embrace.
Then this two party stroll went past Taylor knoll,
then up towards the old Bazan place.

Lost his trail in the shale, by the head of the swale,
took an hour to get it again.
Like sweet upon sugar, I'd get this old booger,
the only question was when?

Up toward Dip 'n Vat, this was now real combat,
then down by the Bert Solomon farm.
He'z a yankin' my chain, and tho I tried to refrain,
my temper was two points past luke-warm.

From sustenance exclusion, I'ze havin' a delusion,
of gradduer from skipping lunch.
I drempt this old buck, was on the hood of my truck,
drove by the Hancock and Willis bunch.

I'ze endin' this chase, near the old Borden place,
I knowed this old muley was mine.
I plainly forsaw, that just up the next draw,
that old feller was going to resign.

I'ze moving with great care, like a porcupine affair,
carefully slippin' from tree to tree.
Just ahead was my mark, a mule deer partriarch,
I cocked my old two forty three.

So now pause a spell, 'fore I finish my tale,
and spare me a little egg face.
Cause in my mind's eyes, I'd pre-bagged this prize,
before I began this wild chase.

Please cut me some slack, cause if you saw that track,
you'd think "Monster Buck" as well!
But I'm thinkin' tonight, it may be my plight.
to lodge at The Heartbreak Hotel!

I'ze verklempt and distraught, 'cause fer hours I'd thought.
I'd be dining on Venison Stew.
But when that old monster jumped, my heart come un-pumped,
-------It was an long eared shaggy old ewe!

This is one of those "Local Lore" poems. Those of you who ain't from Northern Arizona or who don't know Trapper and Gary Hatch, the Hancock or the Willis families, or who are not aware of the reputation of my Brother Kenneth, (Trailer) as a hunter, or of my very mediocre hunting ability, won't fully appreciate this one, but I hope you like it anyway.

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



Now them hippies they say it's simply a rag,
a cloth with colors applied.
They claim it's their right to tear and to burn it,
in these acts they seem to take pride.

Well, maybe it is,- - -my thinkin's old fashioned,
'bout the rights the Founders foresaw.
Are the "inalienable rights" they fought to secure,
the same ones now protected by law?

There's something, it seems to this humble soul,
'bout that rag with the stripes and the stars.
That bore up this Nation through thin and through thick,
in peacetime and in horrible wars.

I'm simple enough to believe in my heart,
God inspired the red, white and blue.
As a symbol, a banner, an ensign perhaps,
a flag for me and for you..

When I see the red, I think of the blood,
shed in defense of this land.
Of the men and the women who struggled,
that this Nation may continue to stand.

The white speaks of freedom, of honor and love,
of hope and of dreams to secure.
The white is a symbol, it seems to me,
of a Nation meant to be pure.

The blue takes ones thoughts to the heavens,
to that God who oversees all..
It was He, the true founding Father,
who made this Nation stand tall.

So while some will abuse this great country,
while others their actions applaud.
I'll stand up proudly and pledge my allegiance,
to this Nation I love, "UNDER GOD".

I wrote this one few years back just as a "feel good" poem for myself. However since September 11, 2001, thought I'd share it for a bit more personal therapy.

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



Now they'ze salves an' ointments, they'ze pills and they'ze balms,
to help a rancher succeed.
They'ze remedies an' cures fer most any cow ailment,
that ya can simply add to their feed.

They'ze charts an' graphs, an' computer programs,
that a modern day cowman can foller.
Tells just when ta breed 'em, ta wean an' ta feed 'em,
to help make a maximum dollar.

But they'ze one new procedure most ranchers now use,
that ya all might find interestin',
It involves rubber gloves and a sensitive finger,
it's simply called "Pregnancy Testin'".

They'ze this one Hansen lad who'd got 'im some schoolin,
to help out his Pa an' his kin.
He'd learned this procedure an' lots more besides,
he'z a reg'lar livestock OB-GYN!

This young man wuz there on the big round-up day,
all the ranchers had brung in their stock.
He knowed that to get this whole bunch a cows tested,
he'd surely be battlin' the clock.

He stood 'hind the squeeze chute as a good tester should,
the key link in this cow 'sembly line.
He'd turn the open cows LEFT, the pregnant ones RIGHT,
the procedure was a goin' just fine!

Then someone got careless, slipped in an ol' steer,
but the 'sembly line just couldn't be halted.
So when this young lad gave that old steer the test,
I suppose he shouldn't be faulted.

The ol' cowmen first snickered, then sumpthin' happened,
that caused 'em ta laugh with delight--
Cuz when the now cross-eyed steer wuz released,
the kid said, -- "THIS HERE ONE GOES TO THE RIGHT"!!

This poem was written based loosely on a story told me by Gene Hansen about one of his sons.

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



How I became a rancher?,
It's a story that should be told.
So grab a stool and set right down,
and I'll let my tale unfold..

Seems lotsa folks get into ranchin',
'cause they just ain't too bright.
Not me, no sir, I'm now a cowman,
'cause I'ze just too dang polite.

This here ranch I own, I had ta buy,
'bout nineteen sixty nine.
Had ta have a place to keep,
this little herd of mine.

"How", ya ask, did I come to own,
this here little homeless band?
It weren't a thing I'd thought about,
nor something that I'd planned.

Till that fateful day in sixty nine,
I'ze content ta punch the clock.
But let me tell ya how, on that day,
I come to own some stock.

I had me this here rancher friend,
who invited me fer a stay.
I never planned to work at all,
just planned ta loaf and play.

I woke up Tuesday morning,
to the pickup horn a blowin'.
Tho bleary eyed, I hollered down,
to find out whre we'ze a goin'.

My friend said we'ze a goin' to town,
ta watch the local auctioneer.
I got dressed quick, put on my stetson,
this was somethin' I wanted to hear.

I know now I'ze not prepared,
fer what happened there that morn',
If Id'a known then what I know now,
I'd a shunned that auction barn.

The Autcioneer, a little feller,
with a Stetson bigger'n mine-
he talked just like Mel Tillis would,
after drinkin' a jug of wine.

Now I speak French and a little Mescan,
and a little Pig Latin as well.
But what it was that guy wuz speakin',
only the Lord could tell.

I thought He'z sure a friendly feller,
as he babbled, he waved at me.
I kept wavin' back and tippin' my hat,
just as polite as I could be.

You've probably guessed what happened,
tho' I didn't savvy a word he said.
Time we got through wavin' back and forth,
I'd bought a hundred an' forty two head!!!

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



On the bank of the creek under an old Oak tree,
on this day that wuz muggy an' hot.
The lad with his pants rolled up to his knees,
wuz knee deep in water, an' thought.

He lived in a world that wuz changin' too quick,
his Ma said, "Yer future looks bright"!
He'd read about phones, an' someone had said,
that electricity could light up the nite.

He'd often come here to this exact same spot,
ta fish, ta play or just dream.
He'd purt near forgot bout the old wagon crossin',
that wuz just a few yards up the stream.

His dreamin' was stopped by a racket he heard,
like a cross 'tween a hay rake an' thunder.
It seemed to come closer, then into his view,
popped a sight that wuz truly a wonder!!

Wuz a big burley feller with goggles and a cap,
in a shiny black Ford Model T.
He screeched to a halt an' frowned at the lad,
now standin' well away from the tree.

"Hey Kid", he growled in a voice gruff an' stern,
"can I cross this here creek at this spot"?
Well, the kid didn't care fer this bully's manner,
but respect wuz somethin' he'd been taught.

"Shore", said the kid, "Ya can cross here quite easy,
this here creek bed is somethin' I know".
"You should get up some speed to get ya across,
don't try to cross 'er too slow"!

Well, the old grouch just spat, an' backed up a ways,
hit the water wrapped up in high gear.
Got 'bout half way across, the Ford started sinkin',
the kid watched it plum' disappear.

The gear jock near drowned, crawled up on the bank,
just lay there an' shivered an' shook.
The kid fought the urge to run fer his life,
but just set with a right puzzled look.

"I can't figger", he said, as he fought back a grin,
"seems ya just plum' run out a luck".
With a hand to his chest indicating the level,
"Only comes up to here on a duck"!!!

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


Another Christmas poem!

SO, you'd like to hear a Christmas poem? Well, whoop-de-doo, - me too!
So I decided I'd consternate and try to scribble one fer you.

But I ain't sure I'm up to it, my brain ain't screwed in tight,
But when I get it lubed and torqued I think this is what I'll write.

I'll write a poem 'bout lights an' garland, 'bout Santa an' his sleigh.
'Bout presents bought from Wal Mart, er ones missed out on eBay.

'Bout Grinch and Scrooge an' Marley, an' carolers a bit off key.
Perchance a note or two as well about a Christmas tree.

I may in passing even mention the blush on children's cheeks.
Or how the yuletide shopping season goes on fer weeks and weeks.

I should mention Santa's elves, those Robert Reich like gnomes.
On loan frum Keebler, these minute guys build presents in their homes!

I may talk of how this season brings joy to one and all,
'Er try to explain in that same context 'bout the catfights in the mall.

Or in these verses that I shall write a word or two on love.
About the Babe in Bethlehem, and of Angels up above.

Perchance I'll speak of Gold,- of Frankincense and Myrrh.
Of wise men and of shepherds, and Mary, -- I'll write of her!

I'll make note in this poem of mine of the star that came that eve.
Which helped a world awash in sin by seeing to believe.

Or I may write of Christ the Savior,- or of His sacrifice.
Who grew up holy from babe to man And paid that awful price.

Yep, I think that I shall do it! I'll write that Christmas verse.
But that may be years from now,- for now I'll just rehearse.

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



She'z mean an' she'z tough, a real bronc buster,
there weren't a job too big fer her.
She could fix a fence tear, flank throw a calf,
was nothin' to which she'd defer.

One summer day the windmill stopped pumpin',
was obvious that something was flawed.
She grabbed up a chain, got the old Power wagon,
pulled and patched a broke sucker rod.

That Lillie could tackle most any ranch chore,
and complete 'em better than most.
Was a source of pain and some consternation,
to cowboys what were oft wont to boast.

She could ride a rough horse, brand a yearlin' unaided,
at ranchin' she shore had the knack.
Around the corrals, when the hands wuz a braggin',
Lillie would cut 'em no slack.

She'd point out to them, there just weren't a thing,
done by them which she couldn't do.
She'd throw down a challenge to her male counterparts,
they'd find themselves defeated and blue..

So the word spread around to all cowboyville,
'bout this broad infringin' their trade.
The word spread as well to the ranches round about,
of the wager that Lillie had made.

"There ain't nary a thing you cowboys can do,
that this here woman can't match".
"When it comes to riding, I can't be throwed,
and at ropin', nothin' I can't catch".

Then Lillie continued to scratch their male egos,
and said in a voice stern and gruff.
"I'll keep a beatin' ya at all yer male games,
just say "UNCLE" when you've had enough".

She outroped 'em, outfought 'em, and even outspat 'em,
these cowboys wuz plainly upset.
They'd been many a wager, but without exception,
Lillie had won every bet!

Let me tell ya 'bout the day when "UNCLE" wuz uttered,
by Lillie, tough Lillie, no less.
Allow me to recount the wager she lost,
'cause I promise you you'd never guess.

"Every cowboy here can beat you old gal".
Wuz how Lillie first met old Sam.
"Fact is, 'fore this here day is out,
you'll be cryin' "UNCLE", dear maam.

"First part of the bet, beginnin' right now,
you've each got ten minutes to complete."
"Drink a six pack of Coors", no problem fer Lillie,
she drank a extra 'cause of the heat.

Now comes the part, where Lillie cries "UNCLE",
come a line which couldn't be toed.
"Cause with the terms half met, in this unusual bet,
her kidneys wuz 'bout to explode.

"Pee a bottle back full" , was Sam's next command,
a task she could do, Lillie felt.
But then she ran to the brush, a hollerin' "UNCLE",
when Sam said, "Don't unbuckle yer belt"!

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



When working cows have you ever thought how dumb they really are?
The gray matter of the entire herd wouldn't fill a half pint jar.
You set there on your cutting mare and observe their rank bovinality.
You may tend to get all smug and proud thinking, "they ain't a bit like me."

Well, probably not an' I suspect they'd be insulted and abased.
If they knowed you'ze comparin' them to the human race!
Whatever strange and odd behavior in which cows may be involved.
You'd swear that by comparison, -- mankind just ain't evolved,,,

--to the high and lofty realm to which cowdom has ascended.
So lend an ear and buckle up 'cause you might just be offended.
Do cows in all of their stupidity ever spray or roll their underarm?
And when's the last time you saw a heifer wake up to an alarm.

Do cows of any breed or class ever light up a cigarette.
An' do they ever use a credit card and run up a massive debt?
I'll admit they might look funny without makeup or adorning.
But they look all day just as good as they looked in the morning.

Do cows ever snipe or gossip, do they bicker and complain?
Do they worry 'bout their suede jacket when it begins to rain?
Do they ever go on a diet, do they stress and fuss about their carbs?
Get upset and pout all day when they're the victim of some barbs?

They seldom need a beautician to do some sort of fancy braiding.
And they certainly ain't dumb enough to submit to microblading!!
They never need to lawyer up, the never see a shrink.
And seldom suffer from a hangover from anything they drink.

No bovine either young or old has ever wet the bed.
Nor do they wear a fitbit to count up each stair tread.
They may oft time marry cousins with no fear of double thumbs.
Nor worry if their new lifestyle may need both of their incomes.

Oh, I admit they can be trying, do stuff that makes no sense.
Ignore the open gate and climb up on the fence.
They may time their bathroom calls till you're on the milking stool.
Mostly their brains are wired to believe each day is April fool.

But in closing please consider when you compare yourself to things that moo.
That they must be confused and embarrassed by some things that you do.
And nowhere is there a cow dumb enough, - if you look the world around.
To actually buy a human person for three six bits a pound!!

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



As I sat on the old veranda, sipping cutty sark and coke.
Thinking thoughts well beyond those of you regular folk.
You know sometimes I amaze myself, though I don't mean to boast.
But at that fountain of knowledge, I just may have overdosed!

I contemplated how human kind might take lessons from the beast.
"Cause with their smells an' potty habits, at the very least, --
They seldom lie nor gossip, an' they're sure not prone to hate.
An', thought I, it seems to me they don't never discriminate.

OR DO THEY?,, perhaps I'm just a bit early on acquittal.
So with my mixed libations, I morphed some Sherlock and Dolittle.
An' as I listened to the animals, I learned a thing or three.
Like fer instance you do know that there'ze a Killer Bee?

An' take the lowly fowl, if I were to use a tape recorder.
Would I catch them clucking out a chicken pecking order?
If I strained my earballs really hard an' heard a breed critique.
When Leghorns consider Wyandottes do they look down their beak?

What of cattle you may ask, they all seem to get along.
They all attend the same feed trough an' sing a common song.
I have observed that the Hereford with their lovely mottled hide.
Will sometimes shun the Angus, I just suspect, my friends,-- it's pride.

An' did you notice that them boy cows, who escaped the OPERATION,
Look with disdain upon steer brethren, now that's discrimination!
Behold the lowly little Shetland, is he a horse or is he not.
I don't think so says the Clydesdale,,, it's just some food for thought.

Now finally, consider the noble canine, Mans best friend, or so it's said.
But as I deciphered all their yappin', I realized instead, ---
That they're just biding time until their master looks away,
Then they'll flip the paw to some dejected lonely stray.

Now folks, do you think a Shitzu, if you're a Labrador Retriever,
Is part of their snobby canine group any more than a beaver?
An' if a Poodle coached a dog team, then I think you'd find settin' on the bench.
Every other breed of pooch, ---of course--- the Poodle as you know is French.

So in my contemplations I concluded, despite the ASPCA,--
That animals ain't always just the pure souls that they portray.
They will at times separate themselves simply based on breed or gender.
And somehow more oft than not the masculine will give up an' surrender.

AND FINALLY: To be a male of any species is to be a sad and forlorn fellow.
Devoid of even a bit of Marsh in their pathetic Mellow.
"Yes Maam", and "right away", and "please honey may I?"
Are phrases in both man and beast you learn when you're a guy.

Ask the frozen monarch penguin dude, who sets for weeks upon an egg.
Or the guy Black Widow spider who sets on a lunch time powder keg.
A King Bee, I don't think so, --- now folks that's discrimination!
And so as I end this little poem it's with some serious consternation.

And as the booze wears off a bit, - and I'm back to normal more or less,
I contemplate the role of maleness an' I simply must confess.
Though I may appear a bigot, I kinda like the Professor Higgins' plan.
In his immortal words my friend,, "Why can't a woman be more like a man?"

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

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

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.