~~Hook 'er up !!~~
The sign on the storefront says, "BUY HER A GIFT".
"IF YOUR GAL IS DOWN, WE'LL GIVE HER A LIFT!"

They’ze sellin’ "unmentionables", -gave my memory a jog,
back to my youth and the Sears catalog.

I'ze plum' out a place, like green socks at the prom,
I felt like Arial Sharon in the midst of islam.

"Sir, may I help you?", - I tried to compose,
I pointed at a display, - "I need one a those."

"We got Playtex an' Bali, an' the new maidenform line".
"With hooks or with Velcro, they all look so divine."

"We have push-up, an' strapless if her shoulders get sore."
"Or them kind with the fishbones like your grandmother wore".

"If your misses is real active, we got t-backs and racers".
"Or if she' allergic to cleavage, we've got 'em with spacers".

"We got one we call "Magnum", that gives gravity a scare".
"An' some are so sheer. she'll think that she's bare!"

"The "Pamela Anderson", in sizes unknown,"
"built 'specially for ladies with silicone."

"In short, midi or long", though forty eight triple D".
"If they break under load, we got a great guarantee!"

"She took a breath, an' I hollered out "WHOA".
"You done told me lots more than I wanted to know."

"My wife sent me here to buy one a them things".
"I had no idea that they came with so many strings".

Says I, "I suppose, they ain't one size fits all?"
"Cause if she mentioned a size, I just don't recall".

"Now I always figgered that a bust is a bust".
"And they'ze a basic style that I could simply adjust".

"I can patch up a harness, or mend a flat tire,"
"An' I could rework theze gadgets with old bailin’ wire."

"Nope, but we got a selection to fit most any shape".
"We got some front closers, for a quicker escape".

"We got some that's frilly, and some more mundane".
"Some that reshape you and some just maintain".

"Wonderbra makes a model that's as good as it gets."
"Takes all nature gave you an' then adds four bits."

"Ok, what's the size range, and just how do you figger"?
"Is it in ounces fer petite gals, an' pounds when they're bigger"?

"Or do I use a tape measure, an' just where do I start"?
"I'm hopin' fer direction or some sort of chart".

"Sir, if you'll help me with some real basic clues."
I'm sure with my training I can help you to choose".

"Now please visualize and try to recall ".
Is your wife about the size of a regular softball"?

"Smaller" I retorted, my gal's built fer speed."
"Then maybe a baseball"? - "No, even smaller indeed."

I could tell by her demeanor, she's embarrassed a bit.
"I need more precision to make a good fit."

I knowed she was thinkin, - I'll make this here sale.
Though I've fit bigger bras on some male clientele.

"About the size of an egg"? She inquired with a sigh.
By then I was anxious, and I gave my reply.

"An egg sounds 'bout right, she ain't a busty female".
"I prefer me a woman ya read usin' braille."

"My gal ain't too bumpy, her whole clan runs to lean."
"She can hang around topless and not be too obscene."

She's muttering to herself, she'd got so dismayed.
"You don't need me, you just need a band aid."

"I'll get her a nice one." She scurried away.
"You're sure that egg size will probably be okay?"

"Yep, that's about right, I ain't no complainer.
She brought back a model called a "mini pre-trainer."

It was a pink frilly beauty, like one on display.
She held up the contraption. - "Does this look okay"?

I knew that this gal was near the end of her rope.
Her nerves clung by toenails on a slippery slope.

"TOO LARGE" I observed, an' that saleslady just cried.
"When I said an egg, - I meant one that's fried".








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

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~~Dust to Dust --- to dust!~~


Now I don't mean to bust your bubble, but I'm just thinkin' that I must.
To remind you guys in all your splendor, you ain't much more than dust.
Now I don't infer you ain't magnificent, cause a couple of you kinda are.
But in the end you just ain't much more than a big old potters jar.

It's dust an' dirt, an' mud n' clay, an' perhaps a pile of stone.
Was what was mixed in the brew to make up flesh and bone.
Some skeptics try to get around it by quoting line and verse,
from Genesis to Revelations, but it was part of Adam's curse.

Now it's never bothered me at all, cause I'm wise enough to see,
least in my case the acorn didn't fall too far from the tree.
My sermons they're as dry as dust, my head hard as a river rock,
My hairs' gone plum' past sandy, an' I'm built like a cinder block.

One cowboy pal of mine told me, an' I take it fer a fact.
That while we're all just dirt piled up, some is much better stacked.
We're all created equal is what I learned when I'ze in school.
You're tellin' me my papered mare's no better'n your old mule!

Now it don't take no Einstein to see that we're most diverse,
It's kinda like I'm the sow's ear, and Redford like the purse.
And He didn't make no female gal, as rough as us menfolk,
He prepared them over easy" an' on us men he nicked the yolk.

So old pard, next time you stand beside one of the fairer sex,
You'll notice you're a little blah, and she's much more complex.
It's 'cause He sanded off her corners, throwed in some charm an' curley hair.
And thank goodness when He's framing "em, - He didn't use a square!

You guys ever had that Deja Vu about a garden way back when?
And had an eerie feeling that that's where this dust thing all began?
Does it seem to you that ladies everywhere can speak in fluent snake?
An' when the wife is cookin' spareribs does yer side begins to ache?

Caused me to settled on a bit of logic that kinda helps me to explain,
The reason why girls is so dang loverlie, an' us guys mutt ugly plain.
It's "zakly what I talked about when I began this grand discourse.
You can't make up no scrambled eggs 'less chickens is your source.

I think that when He made fillies, he used a real fine screen.
He sifted twice and sorted through and then he washed it clean.
Then molded 'em with love and care, - throwed in a dab of whine.
Sent 'em down here to be topped off by Versachee an' Calvin Klein.

Making the manly counter part wasn't nearly as intense.
He just screened out the big rocks through an' old piece of pasture fence.
Then tossed it all together, spun the wheel and played the odds.
And when He emptied out the mixer, it was just a batch of clods.
(I'd heard on Frenchmen he used Caliche, - er is that just my biased rumor?)
(But you folks out there are exhibit A, - He has a sense of Humor.)

An' while He gave us all free rein to fish or just cut bait.
Like a jug of Bashas 2 percent, He stamped an expiration date.
So. --One day we'll bite the big one, go somewhere to our reward.
He'll take all the dust He used on us and truck it back to the yard.

And I suspect that next time 'round when re-cycling that dust.
An' making some more like you an' I, I'm guessin' He'll adjust.
Oh, He'll leave the ladies like they are, lest you menfolk should despair..
But I'm hopin' that on us vintage guys, He'll leave out that long nose hair!

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

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~~A cowboy Christmas~~

It seems to me that Christmas just ain't quite what it ort to be,
what with shoppin' malls an' twinkely lights upon a Christmas tree.
Folks speak of elfs an' Santa Clause a ridin' on a sleigh,
but I learnt that just ain't Christmas, one year up near Santa Fe.

The Crew all had gathered round the corral there on the bar-T spread,
The whole remuda was all latched in, the chickens had gone to bed.
A snow like gentle angel feathers, kinda showed up right on cue.
An' although Cly was strung an' tuned, some a the boys wuz overdue.

That Purina calendar on the bunkhouse wall from Jensen's feed and seed,
was marked December 24th, an' on that we'd all agreed.
The stragglers drifted in 'bout dusk, an' lighted by the hayin' rack,
Just about that time the boss mosied down with a plum' filled gunny sack.

Says he, "I ain't no front pew type, nor no Bible thumpin' saint,"
God He knows just what I am, an' He knows just what I ain't."
"But seems to me that saint an' sinner both got to recognize,"
that all this beauty we got down here didn't catch God by surprise."

"So when I read he sent His Boy down here to help us find our way,
I kinda feel a need to pay some heed, cause He knows that I'm a stray".
Then he opened up that sack an' they'ze a little doodad fer ever' hand,
an' spoke of how he 'preciated that we'ze all loyal to the brand.

The boss he ordered double chuck fer all the critters we had penned.
"We're havin' Christmas vittles manana, I'm a hopin' you'll all attend."
Now he'z a feller of no small means, an' I'ze Forty Bucks an' found.
But on Christmas we weren't Boss an' waddie, we'z just fellers millin' 'round.

Ol' Cly then began to strum his ol' Spanish flat top twelve string guitar,
an' sung the sweetest cowboy solo all about that brightest star.
I had a chill run down my spine, the kind what makes you feel a part,
I knowed this Christmas eve wuz doin' some good things to my heart.

Now I don't know fer sure if it wuz the purty nite, or the song ol' Cly had sung.
Or perhaps, just maybe it was the little gift that the boss had brung.
That just kept a workin' way down deep like an ember bein' fanned.
An' I admit I'ze too thick headed then to really understand.

It's fer sure they weren't no wise men there, no shepherds wuz allowed,
we didn't have no manger scene, nor no angels up in a cloud.
But I thought I heard on wings of wind a whisperin' from on high,
that brung a lump up in my throat an' a tear into my eye.

I kinda felt some crust peel off from my old soul too long a clutter,
I knowed I'd spent my life a circlin' like a ship without a rudder.
An' as I lay there a fightin' sleep in the bunkhouse that Christmas eve,
I whispered quiet thanks to God, an' fer the first time I do believe,--

that He'd heard the quiet musins' of me, who'd shorley been a stranger,
an' I knowed Christmas was all about that there long ago Judean manger.
So I thank Him who is above for this here most special Christmas season.
Fer sendin' down His Son to earth, to give this ol' cowboy's life some reason.

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

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~~Double Play~~


"I warned you that old Charolais bull was trouble from the start,
his calves is junkyard ugly, and rangy as Bonaparte."
"They come out big as elephants, with shoulders like an ox."
"Now we got ninety pounds of crossbreed packed in a tiny Hereford box."

My old Vet, he felt the pain as he listened to my lament,
whilst greasing up his rubber gloves for his parturition descent.
He'd laid out some brand new hardware, a tecnall calving aid.
And a shiny pair of Vetceps, and a rope with soft calf braid.

Freddie dove in like Louganis from a high board platform stand,
an' soon all that was sticking out was two boots and a hand.
He grabbed reverse and slithered out, his prenatal look complete.
"I'm thinking we can save this sucker, I got hold of his feet."

"He's hung up on the tailhead, but we may can squeeze 'im by."
"You set up there where she can see you, an' hum a lullabye."
"I'll swab 'er good with OB lube, and do all that I can."

I squatted there in the Hereford slobber, feeling good he had a plan.

I watched the Doc arrange his tools and coil up the rope,
I'ze doing fine until I saw where he had his stethoscope.
I was thrilled to not be aft where all the action was.
I'd let my pal do the lifting, and take all the applause.

As I was humming out a tender verse of "Little Joe,"
the sound of gears grinding came from down below.
Her eyes went crossed, - "She's blowing doc," -I really feared the worst,
then like a drunk on Ipicak, her dam just up and burst.

A "POP", like the uncorking of a case of French champagne,
then that calf shot out and nicked the Vet, - a runaway calf train.
The umbilical stretched tight an sang a carnie tune,
"Duck" exclaimed the Doc, "he'll be returnin' soon!"

They'ze spit and snot and dribble, flying through the air,
It was strained pea lunch time at my grandkid's eating chair.
My barn re-decorated, shades of "ALIEN" on wide screen.
Kinda like the floor at closing time at the local Dairy Queen.

"I'll snip the cord," Fred hollered, and made a backhand scalpel jab.
Barely missed an' got his knee, - boy that'll raise a scab!
Like a cat caught on a ceiling fan it was just a spinning blur,
Then inbound veal, - a Bullseye, or -Cowseye as it were.

The re-entry unanticipated by his Momma, I should note.
A bawling bovine missle passed her innerds, -through her throat.
then shot out like a wad of cud, pushing halitosis stench.
"I caught 'im low and inside Fred," - -I felt like Johnny Bench!

My learned friend would postulate, the route the critter traveled,
"past the rumen & the reticulum," - then,-his theory come unraveled.
I checked my Funk and Wagnell, and my "Vet fer Dummies" book,
I can't explain it anatomically, the road that bull calf took.


Tho, after nursing that little heifer through all of her travails.
I'll never feel quite the same when calling, "head or tails?"
"You 'spect we ought ta check with Guinness"? Fred just slyly grins.
"What would be the category, you think they'd go fer "twins"?"

Fred joked, "I ought to bring a lawsuit for the slice there on my knee."
And what of that little momma cow, well- -she took a vow of chastity.
I have nightmares of flying bovine, just what does that portend?
An ol' sage told me at calvin' time I'd best stay shy of either end!

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

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~~Arizona Christmas Feast~~

Crismas in the Arizona desert ain't quite like in the story book.
An' poor ol' Martha Stewart would be agast at what we cook.
An' if ya ever tried to throw some twinkley's on a twenty foot saguaro,
You'll know why our Christmas is sometimes "manana, or "tomorrow".
We sometimes to have a ropin', an' we waive the entry fee.
Perhaps a wild cow milkin', an' buck out a bronc or three.

Santa used to Join in, till his reindeer all wimped out.
When Prancer he got snakebit, an' Rudolph contracted gout.
The ol' elf hisself could hardly walk because of prickly heat.
So nowdays fer Christmas we don't do much 'cept set around an' eat.

The Crismas feast may feature such delectable cuisine,
as rattle snake burritos, an' some dip that's plum' obscene.
Oft times we'll warm up with some Mexican hor d oeuvres.
Like deep fried jalapenos, dipped in prickly pear preserves.

Some Javelina tacos, and a Shishkabob of lamb.
Scrambled eggs with Chorizo an a bit of chopped up Spam.
Now I know this talk of Christmas fare has got you salivatin',
But this stuff is just warm-up that we eat while we're awaitin',

Fer the wimmen folk to bring out the chuck that's staple to us here,
served with quiet reverence, --- and a can of cold Budweiser Beer.
Now afore I further bone out this here grand Yule tide creation,
so's you'll know we're cosmopolitan, I'll make this explanation.

We set out our finest China that we got at Safeway over time.
Linen from Nogales - - that's hand stitched green an' lime.
Ma drags out her silverware, the set that matches purty much.
That's been safely stuck away in her antique mesquite wood hutch.

Then we serve all the usual stuff that you do when you're the host.
Like Ham 'n sweet potatoes, oven turkey and some roast.
My gal puts out some bean dip garnish in her classic Tupperware,
an' lots of cakes an' puddins', it's just like a French affair.

And then with Pomp & Circumstance, and served with much ado,
that grand Dutch oven delicacy, - we call Mulligan stew.
We make it up from bovine parts most folks just throw away,
a bit of tail and muzzle, slice in some lip and tongue filet.

A bit of tripe for texture, and some garlic for the heart,
An' if the critter we kilt's a Bull we add a bit of private part.

-alternate-(It's got all the food groups fer those who order a la carte.)
Toss in some sage and cayenne, and bring 'er to a boil.
Let 'er simmer ad nauseam, then skim off the surface oil.

The stuff'll eat through metal so we use a wooden serving cup.
So like yer wife's first marriage, - ya won't wanna bring it up.
Now that's our standard Christmas chuck out here in Arizona.
Served with a bit of variation from Yuma to Sedona.

And it's kinda like a great tradition that each visitor brings some fare.
Most usual it's a pepper dish, marked with crossbones and "BEWARE!"
We nearly never make assignments, we just take whatever comes.
But on each invite we make this note - please bring a sack of Tums!

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

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~~Cow Down!~~


"Cow down" cried ol' Doc Lunt as he headed for his truck.
"Come an' take a ride with me, see just how I make a buck."
. Now I'd just dropped by to visit, when his cell phone played a tune.
Some dairyman on speakerphone, "Doc can ya come real soon?"

He grabbed a set of coveralls from a rack where hung ten more.
Ask me if I'd like a pair, like a novice I said "Shore".
We bailed into his dueley, he jammed full bore on the gas.
I forgot that I'ze a Mormon, I started saying Mass!

Doc Lunt is a country vet, his specialty milk cows.
Works on a race horse now and then, helps litter out some sows.
No little dogs and cats fer him, he ain't no sissy vet.
If you can't eat or ride it, it ain't worth his sweat.

I know now I'ze ridin' shotgun on a runaway stagecoach.
I should have declined his invite, but we'ze on our approach.
Now 'fore I proceed you ought to know I ain't the squeamish kind.
I've seen an' done "fear factor" stuff that'd probably blow yer mind.

I've munched a bowl of crickets, kissed a rattler on the head.
Bunji jumped off a cliff, once slept on a water bed.
I licked a frozen flagpole, ate some month old fish and chips.
And on a dare I even kissed a dead guy on the lips!

But I tell you now in retrospect, I'd rather be a mine canary.
Than relive them sights and smells at that Queen Creek Dairy.
Right in the midst of last nights rain, all mixed with dairy green.
That ol' Guernsey cow had six points out, the saddest sight I've seen.

Now thought I, we'll toss a rope around them horizontal hocks.
An' drag her in the milkin' shed or over on some rocks.
Then we can wash her down a bit, an' have a sterile setting.
Rig up a block and tackle so's we could do some proper vetting.

The Doc took out a big trash bag, told me I'd be his holder.
He reached plumb to the bottom an' I taped it to his shoulder.
Before I knowed what was happenin', he plopped down on the ground.
Did I say ground?- more like green slime, I'ze hopin' he don't drown!

Now that cow was facin' east, Doc plopped down on the West.
Then that bag wrapped arm plum' disappeared, an' may I suggest.--
You don't need to know just where, or what or when or why.
Suffice to say Doc mended her, untangled something gone awry.

I hosed him down from stem to stern, an' scraped off some sticky stuff.
An' though I don't know how much he's paid, it wasn't near enough.
We drove home an' I must admit, I wish doc was in the rear.
"Cause apparently I'd missed some spots, the stink was quite severe.

Now all that's left to wrap up that day of gastro-infamy.
Is to clear my mind of all that trash bag doctoring debris.
And I swear to run like Joseph did in that story of renown.
When anyone even whispers, - that scary phrase, "COW DOWN"!
My cousin Theron Hatch told me of this experience he had with his brother in law, Doctor Lunt and I thought it was too good a story to not be set to rhyme.

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

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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)



~POETRY LINKS~

If you like country stuff and cowboy poetry,
you'll love the pages at the
BAR-D RANCH


They were kind enough to include me on their pages!

---THEN THERE'S THE REAL KING---
MR. BAXTER BLACK !!


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..

1-800-654-2550
(928) 586-1077



headcowboy@baxterblack.com
Coyote Cowboy Company · P.O. Box 2190 · Benson, Arizona 85602


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