They'ze named Lum an' Purdy, these two ol' cowhands on the line,
They'd rid' so long together, that their lives like knotted twine,
wuz all up mixed together, tight like as a gnarled bankers fist,
so's when a thought wuz thunk by one, the other'd oft insist,

specailly if it were clever, that he'd been chewin' it hisself fer a spell,
they'd never settle it out fer sure, fuss a spell, - then let it dwell.
A ridin' line the day before, Ol Lum had cut a faded wagon track,
led 'im straight to a batch a nesters, who'd kinda fallen' through the crack.

A Ma 'n Pa with hallered eyes, wuz part a them what wuz in this fix,
an' roundin' out this busted lot, wuz childern, -- five er six.
An axle snapped, an all asplinter, with busted hub an' spokes,
most certin' they'ze a plum' black cloud a hooverin' o'er these here folks.

Their wheels had quit 'em yesterday, their grub dried up the day before,
This clan'd have to stike a lode, ta just move up the scale ta poor!
The feller weren't a lazy sort, wuz plain he'd tried ta get this mess unwound,
spite a all his workifyin' however, he'z just a steady loosin' ground.

Ol' Lum, he weren't no wooly, but he'd had ta turn away a mite,
ta hide the wellin' up he'ze feelin', when he se'ed theze poor folks' plight.
He straight away rid' back to the line shack, an' wuz attemptin ta explain,
Ta Purdy how some folk ought not to try, ta tame this barren plain.

"They'ze just plain discombuggle", Purdy spit out back to Lum,
"They'd be right well advised, ta turn back frum whence they'd come"!
Ol' Lum knowed just how Purdy felt, spite his fumin' to the contrary.
So's while they jawed, they hitched the team an' then began ta carry,

parts 'n tools to fix the nester's wagon, bedding an' other stuff ta truck,
an loaded up their wirin' wagon, with these essentials an' too some chuck.
Then as they'ze a headin on their errand, the gripin' come more strained,
as they thought out all their blessins', each one then the less complained.

"'Sides" spoke ol' Lum out a the blue, an' woke Purdy from his haze',
"We art not do with hearts too small, ner replace the yays with nays,
when we ain't doin' really much, 'cept just kindly a re-arrangin',
stuff that anyway ain't ours, it's God's goods we're just exchangin'".

Ol Purdy scoffed an faked a bow, "ya sound most like preacher Flake"!
"I worry ya'll wanna dunk me rev, when we get to Beanflat lake".
But Lum knowed he's a spoofin', knowed too his pal would be agreein',
that doin' less than what they'ze doin', would most sure be guaranteein', --

that they'd be stuck with bound up hearts, - feelin' all a Grinchified,
an' so they plodded to their task, them nester's needs ta be supplied.
An' when twas done an' late that eve, they'ze a returnin' to their abode,
just kinda glidin' down the wagon ruts, aglow with what wuz bestowed.

Exclaimed ol' Lum, "this here is nice", as he agin was catched up a sermonizin,
This time Purdy held his peace, he'ze plum' too mellow ta be chastizin'.
"I recollect" Lum bemoaned, "a bit a Bible verse what's hung up in my brain",
"somethin' about a feller hurtin' an' folks a passin' 'em in the offside lane".

"Then bye 'n bye, time a draggin''", lamented Lum to Purdy his ol' friend,
"a passel'd looked the other way, then this one pilgrim stopped ta help attend,
to wounds an' pain a that poor soul, even tho' he weren't kid ner kin",
"not knowin' where he'ze a goin', ner inquirin' just where he'd been".

"Now I know I ain't no Semaritan, ner a thinkin' I art ta be some kind a saint",
"The good Lord knows this here bag a bones, what I am and what I ain't".
"But fer just this day I'ze kinda hopin', He'd mark me up a peg or two",
"an' recollect that this poor cowboy, did once what he'ze 'posed ta do".

"An' then in comin' days, when my life's wagon busts a wheel er tongue,
when this here ladder that I'm a climin', finds me hung up on the bottom rung".
"Er' if I find that in life's fight, ol' scratch's ox has purt near got me gored,
I'm willin' ta bet my whole months wages, that ridin' up'll come the Lord"!

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


Old Tom 'n Jeb and Pooter,
Pals one and all of mine.
Had dropped by to palaver,
ta drink a bit and dine.

They shucked their chaps 'n spurs,
an' settled fer a spell.
Hung their saddles on the fence,
an' hayed their horses well.

We'd sipped a bit of horsehoof wine,
and et some beans an' beef.
Said Jeb, "that there is eatin' boys!",
But then It's been my belief,

That Jeb ain't given much ta smarts,
his old thinkers' in bad repair.
Pooter gave a snort and noted,
"it beats starvin' by just a hair!"

Then just like ever' month before,
when ol' pals gather 'round.
We stacked the plates an' poured some wine,
an' then we come to ground.

Ol' Tom lit on the corner bunk,
an' I'ze sprawled out on the floor.
Jeb n' Pooter took the chairs,
My ol' coon dog by the door.

We commenced ta swap some yarns,
an' share a dream or two.
We'd done the same a hunnert times,
this motley cowboy crew.

Like always we deferred ta Tom,
it wuz kinda like a rule.
After all he's the brainey one,
he'd graduated frum grade school.

The wine had waxed him tender,
said he, "I got a dream!!"
"of love, romance and marriage,"
he's a workin' up some steam.

"I think", he mused, "next week perchance,
er come June er January."
I'm gonna spoon that new school marm!"
"ask 'er if'n she'd like ta marry?"

Then broke in Pooter all atwitter,
"tho that there's a plan fer sure".
"I got myself a layout figgered,
tell me this just ain't plum pure?"

"I'm a gonna go ta ol' J. Otoole,
down at the Cattleman's Trust".
"Secure myself a long term loan,
on terms of "repay or bust"".

"Then I'll saddle up ol' jigger,
mosey on out to the Bar Z spread".
"Buy out the whole kit 'n kabootle,
and all a his three hunnerd head!"

"Good luck", says I, "to both you boys",
"yer chances are little an' none".
"by shrewd plannin', I'll top ya both,
an' have me a barrel a fun".

"Talkin' a wimmen, take ol' widder Finch,
not a homlier gal about".
"But rich as calf strippins, an' land poor fer sure,
she's the wealthiest about theze no doubt."

"It's plain ta see with my masculine charm,
I could woo 'er ta marry me quick."
"Then she's off to a charm school in Boston,
Now, don't that sound like a lick?"

Old Jeb spoke up, tho it weren't like him,
he'd most normal just listen an' whittle.
But I guess it's the wine and the grub a combinin',
He rared back an' jumped right in the middle.

"I've heard theze stories er some variation,
fer a month a Sundays plus a bit."
"An' I'm a thinkin' the odds fer success,
is 'bout like getting' lightning hit"!

"Datin' the school marm, er ol' widder Finch,
Er getting' cash frum Otoole"?
"Them dogs won't hunt, won't even bark,
You waddies is daft as a Mule"!

"Listen up Mi amigos, an' I'll tell ya,
yer plans fer the comin' up days".
"Pooter'll amble back to the Rafter Y,
spend the month a huntin' up strays".

"Tom'll ease back to his boss's spread,
an' I suppose it won't be no harm",
ta entertain the boys at the bunkhouse,
'bout courtin' that there school marm!".

"And you my ol' pard," said he to me,
"you'll not doubt a tad of what I'm a sayin'".
"Cause manana you'll be a fixin' fence,
stop those mix breed steers frum strayin'".

"I'll wander back to my adobe,
make hay of some mountain grass".
"An' whilst we're all a doin' our thing,
another month'll surely pass".

"Then, sure as sin and camel thorn,
we'll again heed the cowboy call".
"Rondevoo here with dreams afresh,
an' lie ta one an' all."

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



I purchased myself a glue on moustache,
one a them full fledged handle bars!
Hooked 'er on so tight with super glue,
I'm afeared it'll probably leave scars.

I bought me a big tan 3X beaver,
with a foot high texican crown.
A hand made Sheplers western blouse,
in kinda a muckeldy dun type brown!

Borrowed a belt from my ol' Uncle Jake,
a trophy buckle he won in Flagstaff.
I'ze getting' 'bout ready for my big debut,
I'ze a goin' ta make 'em all laugh.

Justin boots with twelve inch tops,
Wranglers with a cowboy cut.
A 30 inch waist to be more like Black,
but they wouldn't go over my ----

but then I decided that I'd wax poetic,
so's I could churn out some heartfelt verse.
tho I chawed on it's ear and flanked it too,
it proceeded from bad to worse!

Now, I'd read and I'd studied in minute detail,
most a the poems Baxter had done.
I'ze hopin' he'd channel just a line or two,
so's I could crank out just this one.

I turned on the PC an' "surfed on the web",
Out a place as green socks at the prom.
I done me a search fer cowboy rhyme stuff,
even paroosed cowboypoets.com.

Just one verse says I to myself,
like my poet hero would write.
But I'm startin' ta think that it's barely possible,
that my thinker is touched with the blight.

Though I shy from the thought, see what you think,
now savvy that I'm simply inquiring.
Maybe ol' Baxter has a brain circuit or two,
that's left out of the rest of our wiring?

Day turned to night and the kids went to bed,
I'ze still fightin' to find me a rhyme.
I read from Ol' Waddie an' from S. Omar Barker.
An' from Baxter just one more time.

My brain growed all muddled, my eyelids like lead,
I fought it but finally bailed out.
Then I was there in poets Valhalla,
with all a the big names about.

An' tho' I suppose it was my wife's chili stew,
'er the caffeine frum a dozen cups.
I felt fer a moment like I'ze one of them,
We'ze as close as a litter a pups.

Then out of the haze in this paradise,
an apparition rode up at a lope.
He's tall an' lanky, rode light in the saddle,
I assumed twas the poet's Pope.

He spoke to me, just a mortal feller,
who instantly felt plum' out of place.
I scarcely dared to raise my brow,
an' peer upon his face.

But then with pluck frum some deep spot,
I peeked up atop the tack.
An' there sat my stargazed Poet god.
None other than Baxter Black!

I’ze feelin’ all warm an fuzzy,,
I knowed it’d be set aright.
Shorely now from my rhymin' hero,
I'd be dubbed a poet knight!

But I kinda got the notion when,
I saw the look that wuz in his eye.
That knighthood may not be forthcomin',
I weren't sure exactly why?

And then he spoke, I'ze all alisten,
Sure I'd now found my niche.
Said Baxter, "when ya finish this here poem,
you might consider takin' up cross stitch".

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



Have you ever give a thought, as I’m oft wont to do.
That they is folks from easternville who plum’ don’t have a clue, --
of ranchin’ life an’ cowboy stuff, someone should explain.
That it ain’t like a move scene, even one with old John Wayne.
But then again, perhaps it is, or could be if it was planned.
If we’ze to build a mock up set a la Disneyland!
Listen’ up you wall street types, if ya wanna make some dough,
I’ll outline my envisionment, - you all can fund the IPO.
For bonafides we'll do 'er where it ain't rained fer ages.
An' even more cowhand authentic? We’ll pay starvation wages!

Imagine a ranch house of fiberglass on a knoll of shredded tires.
An’ on the porch some lifelike folks navigate on unseen wires.
Molded cows with movin’ parts that moo an’ chew their cud.
Pigs that’s molded of used play dough pig out in Jell-o mud.
We’ll have a horse remuda, reinforced with space age glue.
They’ll trot about on astro turf, - an’ you can pet ‘em too.
And as the tourists trek along a path of man made dirt.
Sterilized so’s not to soil their shoes ‘er pants ‘er shirt.
They’ll see a Lego bunkhouse front, distress painted all antique,
a crew of mannequin waddies who’ll entertain’ with cowboy speak.
We’ll even have a blacksmith shop, a forge with lights an’ gears.
A burly blacksmith humanoid will hand out souvenirs.
An on main street a general store and a bogus old west saloon,
A duo of counterfeit buckaroos slap leather at high noon.
Computer banks that’s underground will send out a coded stream.
To all the animations, it’ll be a dude ranch dream!
Miles of wire, a batch a switches, an’ umpteen solenoids.
Will help to vivify an’ halt this western town a droids.
A ranch yard dog will bark an’ pant, he’ll beg an’ wag his tail.
To make him better fit the scene, we’ll build him one half scale.
Plus chickens built of packin’ foam that strut on S gauge tracks,
synthetic feathers, allergy free sealed with carnauba wax.
When you come to our theme park, be sure to bring your tikes.
They can ride robot billy goats wrought out of junkyard trikes.
You’ll take the guided tour with a fake live western guide.
Who will regale with cowboy lore and teach a bow leg stride.
A pseudo wrangler along the trail with chassis by hollywood.
Will instruct you how to twirl a rope like any cowhand should.
A stage coach by Toyota, with Delco ac Power.
A dummy on the drivers box dressed up by Eddie Bauer.
This mass of technoid wizardry, built to amaze and to astound.
Is synced precise by infrared to their pre-recorded sound.
We’ll build a wrangler gift shop, sell a line of cowboy gear.
If you just buy a starter kit you can rope a phony steer.
To more enhance theze moments we've an aromatic plan.
We’ll waft out smells appropriate from a silent hidden fan.
To maximize our exposure we’ll build ‘er ‘bout midwest.
So, Whatcha say my monied friends, you ready to invest?
We’ll let you suggest the Marquee, some catchy cowboy name?
Like Wrangleville or Westernworld, that’ll make 'em glad they came.
Oh, and last of all a free keepsake, a memory to insure.
We’ll pile there on the exit ramp, fresh piles of cow manure.
So’s Sunday next when you're suitin’ up, much to your chagrin,
That sploch of green there on your boot will remind you where you been.

© 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.