~~In the Bog~~
If ya've got ya a ranch out in the west, and have had it a couple of seasons.
You've got some gray hair and an ulcer perhaps, and I'll tell ya least one of the reasons.

If your ranch is like mine, an' it probably is, it ain't watered as good as ya'd like.
So in each little gully you've pushed up some clay an' built a small makeshift dike.

An' uphill of that dike you pushed out some dirt, on three sides built up a bank.
When you got through if you done it just right you have yourself a real water tank.

You park that ol' dozer start prayin' fer rain, cuz water's 'bout all yer tank lacks.
The rain finally comes, you rush right down to make sure yer tank ain't got no cracks.

Well, she fills up right fine, ya got a new water, you've fulfilled a real basic need.
The cows use it reg'lar fer 'bout two er three weeks, then the level begins to receed.

The mud 'round the edges where the water once was becomes a full fledged cattle bog now.
They just ain't any doubt what'll get stuck there now, it'll be scrawniest cow.

She'll fight that ol' bog till she wore herself out, when you find her she near disappeared.
You throw a loop 'round her neck, pull 'till she's choked. She's in deeper than first you had feared.

Ya push poles in the mud ta slide 'er out on. Ya dig an' throw mud out fer hours.
Ya ride back to the ranch ta get the pickup, ya know you'll need lots more horsepower.

Well, ya work, sweat an' cuss fer six or eight hours, when she comes out it's already nite.
She stands there a shakin', plum' coated in muck, she's surely a heart wrenchin' sight.

Now if this ain't enough ta cause them gray hairs, an' give ya an ulcer as big as a log.
While ya stand there all muddy, just plum' tuckered out, that ol' hussy walks back into the bog!

This is a poem I wrote 20 years ago and just ran across it. I ain't real proud of it as it was one of the
first I tried at cowboy stuff, so just thought I include it to see if I've improved any.

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


~~Skinny Dipping~~
We wuz getting' testy, - me and Homer Sedgeway.
The boss had left us riding drag since the break of day.
We'd both become the victims of a madcow dust jihad.
Our eyeballs like two cherries in a fresh baked clod.

The dirt had taken layers, we looked like cyclone spawn.
You could have done our portrait with just a brown crayon.
Just after noon we hit the pens, got the cows all tucked away.
Throwed our saddles on the fence and forked our horses out some hay.

Most normal we'd not take a bath till we'ze done with shipping.
But Sedge an' I stripped off our duds, we'ze goin' skinny dipping!
Now it was April first, - there was a chill still in the air.
But we'ze so dadgumed filthy, we just flat didn't care.

We'ze like two big ol' Polar Bears, swimming 'neath the ice.
If you'ze a buyin' frigid, this here'd be cheap at twice the price.
Now I tip the scales at 250 plus, an' I'm petite compared to Homer.
So to call this here "skinny dipping" was a bit of a misnomer.

We'd scraped off the gamey smell and was soakin' near the bank.
When something bit me on the ----, they'ze crawdads in that tank!
I leaped up like an Antelope, and found my self on shore.
Standing there in the great outdoors wearin' just what Adam wore.

We'd not seen the Pilgrim who'd rode up an' watched the scene unfold.
He took a glance, "Oops, pardon Maam", ---- "I told you it was cold!!"
I grabbed my hat and covered up, as the stranger sped away.
"April Fool!" I hollered lamely, I couldn't think what else to say.

I'd never had my manhood questioned 'cept at a bar in San Antone.
I'd mistook the wife's Armini Toilette spray for my "Old Spice" cologne.
Oh, - an' when I'ze shoppin' fer my daughter at this tack store in Seattle.
They couldn't figger why a real he-man would buy a barrel saddle.

Now 'tween the law of physics and of gender they don't appear to be no linkage.
But if I could of caught that pilgrim I'd have explained the law of shrinkage.
"Cause to be a momma's boy or sissy is something I've just always loathed.
So if I ever "skinny dip" again, --- I'm gonna do it fully clothed!

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

    Paul D. Hatch


~Country Cowboy Poet~
They'ze lots of controversy 'bout what makes a cowboy poet.
Cause if your rhyme's is out of bounds you may be the last to know it.
Or if it's not plumb right or wrong, but just a little in between,
the purist will think you're a gentile and just a bit unclean.

Like Garth Brooks is to country music, - it may well be in his soul.
But when it's sung, it comes out just plain old rock and roll.
He may have a country attitude, and he may have a country label.
But he stands out like a Shetland pony in Budweisers stable.

Now them sure nuff cowboy poets who gather from time to time.
Set rules fer what is, - and is not cowboy rhyme.
And if the stuff that you write kinda wanders off the page.
I flat dab guarantee you, you'll never make their center stage!

You may think old Baxter Black is a feller who would fit.
But at the consummate poet gathering he'd not be quite ligit.
Oh, he's got a Stetson to be sure, and the proper poet look.
He's even got a moustache, and he's published his own book.

And he can ride and rope and such, and even help you brand.
But his verse is just too "rock an' roll", and he could be a bit more bland!
And use a dab more cowboy slang, like "grub, and "honker down."
Say "mosey" 'stead of sayin' walk, use "smack dab" as a noun.

One must study up on western lore, and talk like cowboys do.
And use the proper diction, and it don't hurt to take a chew.
And you got to have a real big hat and some Levi's, - western cut.
And walk on stage with swagger, like that John Wayne movie strut.

I've tried fer years to fit in the mold and be part of the group.
But my lyrics are like puttin' real tough Bobcat in the soup.
The upper class won't pick it out, just hang their heads and gnaw,
but when they get up and leave, they got a bad taste in their craw.

I've now come to realize that I'll likely never make the grade.
Like drawing to a heart flush, and turning up a spade.
I tried to be a cowboy poet, I did everything 'cept beg.
But them fellers are all round hole guys, and I'm an old square peg.

Don't get me wrong, I love their stuff and read all of their books.
I bought a 3X Beaver to try to emulate their looks.
I try to learn their lingo and I try to copy from their style.
But they're all Andy Griffith's, and I'm just Gomer Pyle.

So I'll just do my little rhymes to anyone who'll set and stay.
I'm usually free and I work real hard to try to earn my pay.
"Cause we all watched ol' Garth 'n Baxter, as they both seemed to blow it.
So I'll play it safe and call myself, Hatch the Country Poet!

"ta da, ta da, ta da....

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


The succulent aroma ozzed out through the clapboard wall,
twanging waddies noses like the food court at the mall.
The cook had put these cowhands on "time-out" the day before,
due to nasty verbage 'bout the clothing that he wore.

They'd said his cookhouse hygiene left a bit to be desired.
That he smelt like vanilla yogurt whose date had long expired.
So why this feast they wondered, as they shyly drifted in,
hats in hand, a bit downcast. this was the crew "chagrin".

The table topped in silken cloth, and sculptures carved in ice.
Crystal goblets reflected the fine China set precise.
This place looked like a cross between ol' King Arthur's Court,
and the private penthouse suite at the Donald Trump Resort.

A steaming pudding dish was set in ice to aid in cooling.
Platters filled with fancy cakes set cowboy glands a drooling.
And in the center like a star making her debut,--
a savory tender poultry dish which brought "Awes" from the crew.

The cookie dressed in Sunday best with a clip-on red bow tie,
pulled the chair for each cowhand, was enough to make you cry!
Then he brought from the kitchen the steaming main course stuff,
Wellington in Madera sauce, each wrapped in a pastry puff.

"Eat up now boys, I'm willing to let all our past words be forgotten."
"You know that holdin' grudges can make you scrooge like rotten."

And so it was these cowboys ate until all was consumed,-
and the cook gave each a nice cigar, wrapped and each perfumed.

"Where did ya get that tender meat"? "I ain't never tasted finer!"
Such queries were the standard fare of each cowboy diner.
"It had such unique flavor, must be that there French cuisine?"
The chef just grinned and nodded, you'd a thought this was routine.

This here was out of character, but then forgiveness is sublime.
To look this gift horse in the mouth would simply be a crime.
The boys knew they'd been a part of a miracle, - no less.
So one and all they chipped in to help clean up the mess.

They washed and cleaned and scrubbed, shades of old Santa's little elves.
The place looked like a mausoleum, with neatly stacked up shelves.
Fred was feelin' 'specially mellow, cause he'd led in the cooks tormenting,
and now found hisself all tender like and doin' some repenting.

"I'll feed the scraps to my ol' dog", said he to all the gathered boys,
but no one seemed to hear him 'cause of all the blissful noise.
No one heard him neither when near half an hour had slipped by,
he come back in, scraps still in hand, a sad look in his eye.

The cook got all animated, like a sailor on torpedo juice,
or a tiger who'd been caged up and finally got turned loose.
A hush fell in the dining hall, all eyes turned to old Fred.
With his report, the truth crept in, you could feel them cowboys dread.

"I've looked high and low", Fred said. "He ain't nowhere to be found."
"I can't figger it out", says he, "that ain't like my ol' hound."
Ol' cookie laughed like a maniac,-- revenge is really sweet.
"Boy's", said he "let me tell you all, about that mystery meat!!"

"Here boy -- here boy!"

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


~2nd Worst!~
Now I've heard tales of woe and gloom, of things gone bad awray..
Heard of trials best left unspoken that'd make a grown man cry.

Comes to mind my old friend Stretch and a colt he'd took to break.
The process wuz proceedin' well - until, up pops a snake.

I don't want ya thinkin' this here bronc tale is by any means the worst.
But that snake spooked colt hit a cactus patch. Stretch hit it too---- head first!!

Or when I'ze helpin' my pal JD at the round-up on his ranch.
This involved a high speed horse chase and a nose high pine tree branch.

We'ze a givin' chase to a breechy steer, he'd jumped clean out of the truck.
Old JD was a bit hard of hearing,-- He thought I'd hollered "Luck".

This ain't the saddest story I know, tho' it serves to bring to mind.
A time I'ze called to doctor old Jack, his coyote trap wounds to bind.

Old Jack later bragged he'd perhaps had the worlds most painful mishap.
It had involved a call of nature and a poorly placed varmit trap.

He'd just squatted over that steel contraption and his "something" tripped the spring.
Now they ain't no man can hear this tale and not think,--"Boy that'd sting"!

But my pal'd be the first to tell you that when those teeth snapped shut.
And caught some parts best left unnamed, along with his scrawny ------- but

this weren't at all his first worst hurt, as if this ain't sufficient pain?
Said the real bad part was a moment later when I hit the end of the chain!!!!

(I know this is a bit like the "Snakebite" poem, but I wrote this one at the request of a friend years after "Snakebite" -- sorry..)

   "Is that thing loaded?"

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


I'd just brought 'em from the scales to see how much they'd weigh,
when I first laid eyes on that little gal from the ASPCA.
It was a string of raunchy Mescan shells I'd bid on as a lark.
They'd been raised on dirt an' loco weed as tough as pine tree bark.

"You men be nice to them little cows." - the first words that she spoke.
I kinda figgered she was jokin', but she was serious as a stroke.
My first thought was to shoot her, but I just let that pass.
"C'mon gal an' join in whilst we get these steers to grass."

"Just stand there by that swingin' gate and turn 'em to the right."
When I jerked the latch pin, it was just a downright pure delight.
Them steers went willy nilly, like bad news gone awry.
They wuz bovine smart bombs, - and that gal was their bullseye.

One horn snagged her fresh pressed jeans an' ripped 'em stem to stern.
An ol' loose steer sprayed her green whilst I watched with some concern.
She dove beneath the bottom rail, and there got greener still.
Then come up spittin', guacamole, looked like a bad used dollar bill.

One of her designer boots had kinda pulled loose in the mud.
It had a flower motif, -- it was destined for steer cud.
Then a brindle yearling who must have trained in the ballet,
did a tip toe pirouette an' nudged sweetheart into the hay.

She clammered up on one knee, - the steer olympic torch was lit.
First up was the high jump, -- that gal became the landing pit.
I guess no bones wuz broken, - - at least not on the steer.
But that gal began to see the light and to seek out a new career.

Her hair looked like a fur ball, her clothes were all askew.
"You wanna take that brindle beast for your pettin' zoo?"
She glared at me an' stomped away, kinda walking on the slant.
Word is she's now the hammer man at the local packing plant!

"ASPCA my aching B&%#!!"

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


~Shootin' the bull~
Livestock ain't normal' given to climbing trees and such.
They're kinda Terra Firma tied an' try to keep in touch
with their grass an' brush side, they're gravity impared.
So they could never climb a cedar tree even if they dared.

Well, that ain't quite writ in stone, they'ze an exception to the rule.
My nasty, mangy, cantankerous, - deceased Holstein bull.
The story's kinda blurry, like some tequila helped the tale.
When Jed had et a couple worms, a minnow wuz a whale.

"We'd saddled up 'bout daybreak, and hit the swale by eight o'clock."
"Found that ol' hide still bedded down up there by "Hanging Rock"."
"He went seven ways from Sunday, but we'ze on him like the plague!"
"If I could snag a horn or two, ol' Jed would surely find a leg."

But here's where it gets mucky, an' the story kinda bobs and weaves.
'Cause Jed an' Hank both spun a tale that hardly anyone believes.
"I'ze on that feller nose to tail, like a downhill eighteen wheeler."
"If I could just get my job done, I'd flip it to the heeler."

"Twirled my twine like a silken hula hoop, an' the loop was goin' true."
"'Bout then that sack of T-bones just plum' disappeared from view!"
"I'd caught a big ol' Chaparral, - there goes our entry fee!"
"That ol' bull had hung a right and climbed up in a tree."

"Like a drunk house cat on crack cocaine, he'ze hangin' by his toes.
His tail was twirlin' in the wind, snot blowin' from his nose."
"Now everybody's got a curse, an' that old carcass must be mine."
An' I was kinda happy to see him up in that old scrub pine."

"We tried fer hours to coax him down, with verbage clean an' dirty.
Then we found a way to get 'er done, -- it was called a thirty thirty."

So folks, whilst Jeb an' Hank ain't neither one cowland's sharpest tool.
If they're talkin' straight 'er blowin' smoke, either way it's "Shootin' Bull"!

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


~The NASToad 500~
We'd took a bit of Calaveras county, an' just a dab of Pimlico. An' come up with a family game, a grand reunion show.
Horses wuz too cumbersome and local frogs weren't up to code. So if you come to our reunion, bring your racing horny toad.

At first it wuz real low key, now it's like a great Nascar event. My toad's sponsored by a tire store, - we work it on percent.
GEIKO brought their Gecko, Addidas brought their shoes. Purina brought their new TOAD CHOW, - we made the evening news.

Uncle Fred pinstriped his toad with Aunt Mildred's red lipstick. Jack got his toll painted pink, - she was lookin' really slick.
Last year he'd brung a ringer which had won him best in show. A big barn rat with camouflage made out of old bread dough.

We'd spruce 'em up fer display, an' they'ze trash talk to be sure. "Hey cuz, that toad of yours would make a great Bass lure!"
"Yer lizard has a gator in his family tree woodpile ! And would probably win a contest if ugly comes in style."

But racing was the game at last, this was a high stakes sport. And the standings were all listed in the "Horny Toad Report".
Grandma did her homework, picked up a toad that went on waivers. She kept him in her purse hopped up on evergreen Lifesavers.

But then we each one had our "system" to make our reptiles faster. My niece was busy wrappin' hers in a stinky mustard plaster.
Jim was in the corner feedin' beer an' pretzels to his skink. Jack's little galtoad was snortin' something to get her into sync.

Some were doing warm up laps out on the training field. Ted fed his beans an' brought a match, - that would be appealed.
Jane's little filly Gertrude was makin' her debut. Jane had her in the trainers tent a sniffin' super glue..

I'd always worked my boy Barry on a trainers bike. He'd suck down a little "No Doze", an' smoke a Lucky Strike.
But this year it was designer drugs, I'ze gonna shoot him up. I pumped in a syringe full, - he'll win the breeders cup!

"On yer mark", the starter shouted, "get ready, set and GO!" A score of rough skinned Geckos fled, - with trainers all in tow.
Barry kicked into "anabolic", - lept up on the picnic table. Hopped into the mashed potatoes on the plate of my Aunt Mable!

"He looks a bit out of control", observed the racing judge. Just as he did a triple gainer, and bellyflopped right in the fudge.
He hissed at kids an' spat on grub as he did laps around the spread. Did the backstroke 'cross the punch bowl and devoured all the bread.

Then sprinted past the cheese dip and scaled the melon platter. Soared through the air a-la Superman into the fritter batter.
My brother Bob, the fry cook there, had a quick release. Before I could holler "STOP" my toad was in the grease.

I glanced in the fritter skillet, was plain my boy was toast. "Let me check the vaccine vial, - I may have overdosed!"
The label read, "one milliliter for each hundred pounds of weight". I guess an "OOPS" would be in order, I think I gave him eight.

I retrieved my deceased buddy, now two points past well done, - I tossed the steroids in the trash, and hid the vaccine gun.
I interred him in a match box down between the Lilly ponds. Placed a marker with a Dupont label, - "Here lies Barry Bonds!"

A cousin on my wife's side who had attended uninvited. Had the cops shut down our race, - Cock Fighting statute sited.
I still had a stable full of lizards, so before they up and died. I took 'em to my wife's reunion potluck, we served 'em batter fried.

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


~Cowboy Jury~
When I get up to them Pearly Gates, and I hope that it'll be awhile.
I'm going to take the paper work and request a jury trial.
And I'll want seated on that panel some other cowboy types.
Men who've walked the walk and who have earned their stripes.

It ain't that I don't trust the Lord to hear my life's complaints.
It's just that He'll be busy there a judging all them saints.
I wouldn't want to waste His time recounting all my years.
'Sides, I'd feel comfortable with the judgement of my peers.

Now I don't intend to throw myself on the mercy of the court.
This is serious business, and I'll not treat it as a sport.
I'll need a New York shyster lawyer and a judge from Abilene.
They'ze some stuff I want suppressed so it's never seen.

The anger that I've shown at times, the cussin' that I've done.
All the likker that I've drunk, and the tall tales I have spun.
That I've done some bad things there just ain't no debating.
But perhaps I've got a thing or two that would be mitigating.

I'm kind to dogs an' old folks, I try to always be polite.
I brush my teeth each morning, an' bath each Friday nite.
I once was married, had no kids, an' it ended in divorce.
So it's just me an' my dog Sam, an' my ol' sorrel horse.

I ride fer the Bar-T spread down on the Rio Grande.
I always give a full days work, - I'm loyal to the brand.
I always try to dally tight so they won't be no wreck.
I've never had to back up when I go to get my check.

Like good cowboys ever'where, my word will be my bond.
So when I'm asked fer bona fides there in that great beyond, -
I just think my cowboy pals there in them jury seats,
won't need no affidavit's, nor ask for no receipts.

But I'm thinkin' trials up there, unlike them on earth, -
won't judge us fer our weakness, but try to find our worth.
Instead of tryin' to string us up fer where we've come up short,
they may emphasize our good stuff when we go to court.

But perhaps the judge up there will read me the third degree.
And if I'm accused of Sainthood, -- "Not Guilty" is my plea.
'Cause if the only proof is my life's works, - here's what I'd predict.
They'll come way short a finding evidence to convict!

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


~Cowboy CPA~
"I think I'll get a CPA and have him keep our books.
Perhaps we ain't broke at all, though that's shurely how it looks."

We'd got a bit caught up in that "status" song and dance.
We'd 'bout catch up with the Jones's, then they'd re-finance.

So this egghead brought his laptop, with the latest ranch software.
"Bring me all your records, -- and I suggest a word of prayer."
He put 'em all on Quicken, I noticed lots of stuff in red.
I'ze feelin' like that day when I'ze told my dog was dead.

It don't engender confidence when yer accountant laughs out loud.
An' asks if he can show yer books to his bookkeeping crowd.
I heard him mutter something like, "man now that's bizarre!"
"I don't think I've ever seen BS scattered quite this far."

The feed store bill was reconciled, the tack store bill's a mess.
If I can't find that last receipt, they'll probably repossess.
I'd robbed my retirement fund to buy that backyard pool.
Borrowed from the inlaws for my daughter's boarding school.

We'd took out a second mortgage, placed a lien on all the herd.
Had a Visa and a Mastercard, - the balance was absurd.
"We'll put a column fer alimony", -- "but I'm married still my friend."
"Trust me sir, when she sees this, that will shortly end."

But I'd kept it to myself, so the wife was not complaining.
She'd never get upset when she had blank checks remaining.
I sold my new Crates saddle, and threw in my favorite horse.
The bank took back my gooseneck, and my new truck of course.

We sold our class A motor home and cleaned out the garage.
Traded in our Beemer for an old used Dodge.
The bank took back my condo, the marina got the yacht.
I put an ad on Ebay to sell my wife's burial plot.

I'd cashed in my life insurance, sold all my Enron stock.
Stole my kid's piggy bank and jimmied up the lock.
Perhaps I'd been extravagant, had bought too much for show.
But now I'ze gonna get my ducks all in a row.

He entered all the data, like I'd hired him to do.
Had it on a spreadsheet, - an' gave me a review.
He put heifers in column "A", - the bulls in column "B".
Then "drag an' dropped" the neutered ones into column "C".

He added up the assets and deducted all the bills.
Fixed us up a budget devoid of any frills.
The CPA packed his briefcase, his work was now complete.
I'ze sure that in a week or two I'd be back on easy street.

He punched a little button on that laptop he had brung.
Made a crunching noise, got a blue screen and was hung.
When he had rebooted and opened up the file.
He just stared into the great abyss, - it seemed for quite a while.

"How's it looking?" I inquired, "Give me the good news first."
"I wish I could," he muttered, "but they'ze only worse and worst."
"Am I broke?"
I asked, - he bowed his head before he spoke.
"Sir you'll need to scrounge up fifty bucks to qualify as broke."

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


Politically Incorrect
Now I'd say cowboys by and large have a good dose of respect.
But to a man I think you'll find they ain't politically correct.
And if you take offense too easy, you'll find them too severe.
So when they have a gathering, I suggest that you steer clear.

Their talk will be of rainfall, and about the range conditions.
An' when Frank's dander gets worked up, he cusses politicians.
"Them fellers from the State cut my allotment 'bout in half."
"An' I'll be in violation if just one cow has a calf."

"That new guy from the BLM ain't got the sense God gave a stick!"
"He says we got to keep our cows from walking in the creek."
"They tromp out pussy willows, so they must cease and desist."
"An' we got a nest of real rare tadpoles there, on the endangered list."

"Now yer cows can drink the water, - they just can't wade on in."
The one thing I'm thankful fer, -- that guy ain't got a twin!
"So tell me son," I asked him, "just what do you propose?"
"I guess you'll have to fence the creek an' run a garden hose."

"Enlighten me boys if you will, just what sense that all makes?"
"Cows been trampin' through that stream since Satan was a snake."

Jack spoke up, - he'd been thinking, you could tell it by his look.
"What if somehow they just weren't no Mud Puppies in that brook?"

Everybody looked at Jack, and to a man they later said, --
they'ze one a them cartoon light bulbs just above his head.
Anyway, long story short, Frank's herd is back to size.
And they can frolic in that stream and even make mud pies.

It may have been a lunar flare, but that's not what I suspect.
I'd bet them PollyWogs demise was more politically incorrect.
Jack asked me if I'd ever seen a tadpole in full flight.
"Whatcha mean?" I queried, an' he just whispered "Dynamite!"

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


I have this little phobia that I normally wouldn't share.
My nightmares feature dog food on a folding metal chair.
"Bizarre", you say, -- I understand, it's hard to figger out.
But let me share some history of what it's all about.
I bought a string of long eared calves, back in ninety eight.
Threw 'em on some pasture, then set back to wait.
The drought that year was nasty, the grass turned into dust.
I had to move my little bunch, the banker said I'ze bust.
But with the market in a slump, 'bout the only option open.
Wuz to cut out the able ones and rent 'em out for ropin'.
They wuz mostly standard fare, 'cept this one little charlois bull.
He looked a lot like Michael Moore, an' just about as cruel.
Madussa wuz his nickname , don't look him in the eye.
He had a case of ADD, he'd served with Captain Bligh.
I went to his first outing, to give the ropers some advise.
My little Bull, they should know just didn't play too nice.
The pin wuz pulled, he flipped a "U", just like an off course scud.
Ol' Clint was caught a bit off stride, - so too his sorrel stud.
But Clint was long in tooth, a journeyman with twine.
A loop he slipped around that beast and dallied up right fine.
Then bailed off like a Navy Seal and flanked that rangy critter.
It was like that bull was beddie bye an' he's the babysitter.
Clint's piggin' string fairly flew, he's wrapped up triple toe.
I'ze a bit embarrased that he'd been conquered so.
But 'fore that roper stood up, he'd slipped that piggin' string.
Then zeroed in on the glint from ol' Clint's wedding ring.
He morphed into Rottweiler and started to pursue it.
Chomped down like a gator, -- bit off the finger right next to it.
Then Clint's ropin' horse got spooked, - raced out the loading gate.
Trolled my raunchy little bull like catfish stinky bait.
Left his rider standin' there, one digit short a fist.
T-boned Madussa into a post, - we scored it an assist.
He hocked a major loogie, like a magnum tater gun.
Then I saw a ghastly knuckle arching past the sun.
It flew by the flagpole, bounced off the judge's stand.
Like some displaced cousin searching for a hand.
I jumped up, and "kerplunk, it landed in my seat.
It was still a wrigglin', looked like a tiny doggie treat.
I should have ran, or called someone, - but I just chose to linger.
After all, this here's the firstest time a cow gave me the finger

Is this the right one?

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


Mr. Goodwrench
"I mostly hear the noise when I'm comin' in at nite.
After I been chousin' cows, an' I'm wound up pretty tight."
It's down there on the floorboard, it could be the brakes.
But I'd like to have it fixed, now matter what it takes."

Sounds like ol' Marley draggin' chains in that Christmas show.
It's a kinda high pitched rattle, an' it seems to come an' go.

That service guy looked baffled, he couldn't replicate.
He'd drove around fer hours while he had the feller wait.

So he called in Mr. Goodwrench, the best guy on his crew.
"Check out the running gear, an' the engine too."
Hooked up the analyzer, punched in the proper code.
Ran the thing at idle, an' tried it under load.

"I don't find no problem," exclaimed the auto tech.
"An' I don't know a single thing that I failed ta check!"

So they replaced the tranny, put in a brand new clutch.
A high torque pressure plate an' adjusted it fer touch.

Two weeks passed, he returned, the problem reappears.
"I'ze comin' from the rodeo with a load of steers."
"It set up a racket when I move from brake to gas.
"This here truck has become a real pain in the --

glass is what it sounds like, all broke up in little pieces."
"Seems like when I'm pullin' stock the racket just increases."

On the dealer's payroll, a cowboy moonlighting there.
Had overheard the back an' forth concerning the repair.

"I think I got it figgered boss, at least I got a theory."
Mr. Goodwrench's eyes rolled back, was plain that he was leery.
Turned out the kid was right on, - said "when this occurs.
Just reach down real careful an' unbuckle yer ridin' spurs. "

What noise?

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


The Diagnosis
"An ulcer is what I suspect,
or a hernia perhaps.
I pert near had 'er cured,
but suffered a relapse."
"When I picked up day money,
at the Taylor sweet corn ropin'.
Since then she kicks up reg'lar,
I come here doc a hopin'," ---
"Ya could maybe fix me up,
I'm wantin' some relief.
Snake oil, I'm a thinkin',
would take away my grief."
"A twitch in my ol' gizzard,
rewards me when I set.
Treat me doc I'm beggin'
I'm ever in yer debt."
"A dose of salts perks me up,
it's 'bout all I tried."
"But then I get a double pain,
when I saddle up an' ride."
Lactose Intolerance”, said my kid.
He’d done a google query.
Milk an’ cheese the culprits,
I swore off of dairy!
"Bathin' kinda soothes 'er,
straight standin' gives a break.
A sharp pain I get fer bendin',
an' squattin' ain't too jake."
Some scratchin' on that little pad,
that there's why I'm here.
I'm hopin' it's just heartburn,
but a tumor's what I fear."
"Let me diagnose doc says,
I'd rather not debate."
"When you bend to tie yer shoes,
does that irritate?"
"Your diet may be suspect."
He asked, "what do you eat?"
"Beans an' taters sometimes,
but mostly it's just meat."
"X'ray me doc I'm desperate,
I'm too young to go.
I'm worried 'bout contagion,
an' whether it'll grow?"
"Inhale!", was his instruction,
"an' hold till count of three."
A little mallet he secured,
an pounded on my knee.
Searched within my eardrums,
my nostrils he explored.
Checked fer tonsilitis,
fer swollen nasal cord.
"My paunch I say, not my nose."--
"Tests sir I must complete."
--Like goin' to my dentist,
an' have him check my feet.
"A dent", said he, "is what I found,
Tucked there in the shade.
Beneath the bellybutton,--
worn an' kinda frayed."
"My colleagues I‘ve consulted."
"this case has me stumped."
"Just when ya set or bendin' down?"
-- Right then somethin' bumped.
"Cowboy", says he, "put on yer pants."
"I think I got the answer!"
"Is it an ulcer doc, or reflux,
with my luck it's prob'ly cancer?"
"A diagnosis I have sir,
no thanks to my degree.
A cure's what I'll give you.
You got my guarantee."
"Juvenile", described his grin,
transmuted to a chuckle.
"The antidote is simple, --
   Just unload that trophy buckle."


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


How hot is it?
He was raisin' crossbreed stuff just east of Casa Grande.
You could tell by lookin' this boy would make a hand.

His get up fit the picture, he looked the cowboy part.
He had a grizzled cowboy face an' had a cowboy heart.

He wrapped his pony's reins around a big mesquite.
Took his paper an' some Duram an' wrapped a cigareet.

"I pushed steers up in Montana 'bout two lifetimes ago."
"Then worked my way down south to shed the cold an' snow."

"The heat has thinned my blood, I'm runnin' cactus juice."
"When it gets below a hunnert I get plum' obtuse."

"I've only had two cold things in all my cowboy life."
"Them cold Montana winters, an' my ol' ex-wife."

His butt was smoked in silence then snuffed out with his toe.
"I got to gather strays, says he, - but before I go." ---

"I'll tell ya 'bout my plan fer when my roundup's done.
When they carry my ol' bones off in the settin' sun."

"I'll want a little gaited mount an' a tall, warm glass of beer.
"Cause I ain't earned no angel wings, - that seems fairly clear."

"Throw in my saltillo an' a pair of woolen socks.
A set of supple gauntlet gloves ta cover up my hocks."

"I'll need ta take my duster an' some flannel under wear.
Some blankets fer by bunk an' a warm shawl fer my chair."

"An' when I get all settled in an' shed my Stetson hat.
I'll ask ol' Scratch if he could please turn up the Thermostat!"

"somebody close the door!"

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


"You been to church a time or two, you're up on me old friend."
"So tell me what the program is when this life comes to an end?"
"Is they a spot fer old cowboys with sketchy resume?
"Or do these ol' bones just molder there beneath the clay?"

"I've heard tale that they'ze a place where streets are shiney gold."
"An' the markets' always up when they'ze cattle to be sold."
"The grass is always up to here, the tanks are never dry."
"If that's true, then sign me up to go there when I die."

"Well that's true ol' pard," says he, they is a place like that."
"Lets you and me get to church to find out where it's at."
So Sunday next all duded up, we rode into town.
The preachin' wuz in full high gear when Tad an' me sat down.

"Do ya feel the spirit?" - 'bout twenty souls replied.
Amens and Hallelujahs, an' ol' Tad just up and cried.
This place wuz like a dance hall show, or Friday nite revue.
If I'd a know I'd be involved, I'd a lost my chew.

I thought they might be Lutheran, or some Pentecostal sect.
Perhaps they could be Baptists, they had a southern dialect.
I knowed they wuzn't Mormons, even though they called me brother.
"Cause they'ze all drinkin' coffee, - right in front of one another.

They'ze some folks rippin' at their clothes, some wigglin' like a sprout.
Some serious layin' on of hands, they'ze castin' demons out!
A sister makin' light of satan had triple sixes on her attire.
An' to add to all the hubbub they had an acapella choir.

Several foks wuz in a trance, some danced down the aisle.
Ol' widow Maude jumped up on her pew, then fainted in a pile.
A layman jabbered in strange tongues, kool-aid wuz being served.
Some feller dancin' with a snake, I'ze gettin' some unnerved.

Then the preacher took the pulpit, "I'm gonna tell it straight."
"It's time ta shed yer sins my friends before it grows too late."
"If ya want to go to heaven, declare by standin' up."
I'ze the only one left seated, felt like a dogied pup.

The deacon halted in mid-stride with his collection plate.
They'ze a chill went down my back, like fingernails on slate.
The born again guitarist slipped an' hit a nasty note.
"Rock of ages", just begun, stuck in the cantors throat.

Ya could a heard a pin drop, an' then as if rehearsed, --
ever' eye turned my way, I hung my head an' cursed.
"I'da slunk beneath the seat, but they wuzn't room enough."
"I'ze gettin' green around the gills, - I'd swallered all my snuff!"

"Oh dear son," the reverend asked, "I can't help wonder why, -
you don't wanna go to heaven someday when you die?"
I jumped up, "I'm sorry rev, -- shore that'd be okay."
"I just thought you'ze gettin' up a load to go today."

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


Poet's nightmare!
I'ze a sweatin' most profusely underneath my belt.
I noticed that my moustache wax had begun to melt.
My knees shook' like a newborn colt in a six point quake.
Like when I heard a moanin' sound at my Aunt Lilly's wake.

The butterflies down in my paunch launched into full flight.
A zit popped out on my forehead just like my first prom night.
I don't know how I get myself into these kind of scrapes.
I'm gonna buy some Beta Blockers, rent some meditation tapes.

I'd prepared most aptly, just like old Santa's elf.
Days of wandering to and fro, a mutterin' to myself.
I'd done 'em underneath my breath, and other times out loud.
When I'ze out there by myself, or when I'ze in a crowd.

They seemed to be a disconnect between my mouth and brain.
My hatband shrunk two sizes, the blood began to drain.
My face started snowy white, then went to a bright red tint.
My mouth was full of cotton, or belly button lint.

I glanced out at the audience, they'ze men in ties an' tails.
The wimmen folk all spruced up with brightly painted nails.
The Maitre'd had on a cummerbund, looked like a Russian Czar.
A dozen fancy waiters wuz servin' snails an' caviar.

And then the curtains opened, the lights went way down low.
The ten piece band struck up a tune, it was time to start the show.
The emcee told a joke or two, the microphone wuz stale.
He innerduced the singin' twins who were two notes off scale.

An' then before I knew it, it was my turn to take the stage.
It seemed my memory slipped a cog, an' couldn't turn a page.
I struggled thru a line or two, an' silence settled in.
I broke out in boils, an' sweat dripped off my chin.

I throwed out another verse, wuz met with dull blank stares.
I felt like a naked pauper in a class of millionaires.
I couldn't even conjure up the next line that I needed.
I shook an' squirmed, then finally from that stage stampeded.

'Bout then my wife she tossed an' turned an' woke me from my dream.
The bed was soaked in sweat, (I hope), - 'cause my side was downstream.
An' I took the pledge next morning, before I pulled on my boots.
I'll never do my cowboy poems fer folks in three piece suits.


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


Family History Center
Jeff 'n Wayne 'n Shug, like they'd done each Friday nite.
Sat there on the bunkhouse steps in the fadin' light.
They'ze nursin' what remained of the 12 pack they had bought.
When Shug uttered something that caught ol' Wayne mid squat.

"Just a dab of reverence is what you boys should show to me."
"Cause I found out that I'm just plum full of royalty."
"I"ll play along," says Wayne, although he's 'bout to come unglued.
Ol' Shug wuz like a flank cut steak, that couldn't quite be chewed.

"Well it kicked off couple weeks ago," says Shug to his old pals.
"When I got just plum bushwhacked by a couple Mormon gals."
"I'ze needin' to buy a pair of pants, went to a shop or three."
"Then a pants store with a catchy title, they called it gene--ealogy."

"Them two gals grabbed me by the neck, then actin' really sweet."
"They soon had me doin' microfish there on a foldin' seat."
"We checked the census records, stuff from a Scottish church."
"They even had me go online an' do a family search."

"We looked thru ol' newspapers, - what fer I had no clue?"
"Checked out some probate records, an' Ellis Island too."
"Them two gals wuz giddy, like they'd been drinkin' cactus juice."
"I'ze surrounded on all four sides, I tried to call a truce."

"We read obituaries, checked the ancestral file."
"Looked at PAF an' Gedcom, I'ze there fer quite awhile."
"Wuz them gals smokin' something? - what else could I surmise."
"How else could one get so excited 'bout lookin' up dead guys?"

"Now don't get me wrong, I like dead folks as much as any man."
"But if them two'd unlocked them doors, Id'a up an ran!"
"Finally it was closing time, they shut down them machines."
"I bolted like a fresh spayed cat, -- I still ain't got my Jeans!"

"So," says Shug, "I found that my old grandpa and some greats."
"Had some princely titles, an' had owned some grand estates."
"So I'm just suggestin' that you boys should maybe bow."
"When you're in my presence, like fer instance .. now!"

"I got no doubt", says Jeff, that unlike me an' Waynes."
"Ya got a batch a blue blood a flowin' thru yer veins."
"Yer just plum full a royalty, er maybe it's just gas."
"Everyone agrees that yer a royal pain in the -- class,,,,--

Yea, that's what you may find at your local FHC.
If you climb among the branches in your family tree.
But whether saint 'er sinner, I don't suppose it matters much.
They'll just appreciate it that you tried to get in touch.

(This is a poem I wrote by assignment from the lady at our Family History Center. For those who may not know, the Family History Center are places around the world where the Church or Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints give help to anyone who may be interested in looking up and finding out about their ancestors. These men and women who work in these centers are very dedicated and are extremely helpful to any and all who come in.)


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


Lee Fairbanks
This Lee Fairbanks fellow..
I heard he come from Canada, and slipped across the border.
And I got my suspicions that his papers ain't in order.
He don't look like Al Quida, Hamas or Taliban.
But they may have cleaned him up an' took away his tan.

Or even worse he could be French, come down from Ottowa.
If he's French, he sure is the nicest one I ever saw.
Now I got nothin' 'gainst the French, like you may conclude.
Why some of my best friends are… arrogant and rude.

Did he cross the land bridge, come down through Labrador?
And is his boss some wako, like Ben Lauden or Al Gore?
Perhaps he fled from Saskatoon, the mounties on his tail.
An' slipped across at Coutts, so they would lose his trail.

So what about this Fairbanks fellow, he's too good to be true.
Is he here to blow us up, or is he just passing through?
He's got his little mouth harp, and he entertains the folks.
He may sing a song or two and tell some Canuck jokes.

Now he can play a country song, or do a fifties tune.
He can blow an Irish Jig, just like old Sean Muldoon.
Noone can really be this good, He just may be a spy.
Come here to get the secret of Katie's homemade pie.

I suppose I should give him the benefit of doubt.
Treat him with respect awhile before we kick him out.
I just plain don't trust someone who's so polite and nice.
If ya hold the door for him, he'll probably thank you.. twice.

And part of his great cover, claims he's Linda's Pa.
He even seems to love her, -- I still suspect Fattah.
So I'm gonna keep an eye on him, an' watch his ever' move.
Somethin' just don't smell quite right, but nothin' I can prove.

I think I'll turn this Fairbanks name into the I.N.S.
Check his passport records, an' get his home address.
And if he's on the up an' up, you folks ought to know.
That while you all are eatin' potluck, I'll be eatin' Crow.

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

PDH.. 03/2006 Written for Mr. Lee Fairbanks for a program at the Rock Art Ranch. Linda Miller's Dad who comes down from Canada to visit regularly and whom we have come to admire and appreciate.
This one ain't in the cowboy vein, but included it here at the request of Mr. Fairbanks' relatives.


Farr fishing fiasco
Cindy's goin' fishin'
The voice there on the cell phone, her veterinary friend.
Gave her pause and made her regret she'd ever pushed the "send".
For some magic pill or potion was what that she'd been wishing.
But said her learned friend," Cindy gal you're in for some serious fishing."

It had all began that morning when her beloved little Ewe.
Seemed to be somewhat off her feed, perhaps a touch of Flu?
Her nose was wet and runny, her tongue began to swell.
And the sheep was showing signs of being ill as well.

Cindy beckoned to her daughter to come help to diagnose.
Their little family wool machine looked downcast and morose.
They pushed and poked and prodded, used a beer can stethoscope.
They couldn't find a answer, they'ze quickly losing hope.

They looked for signs of Scrabies, checked her out for bloat.
Sifted though her droppings, felt the lanolin in her coat.
Looked carefully down between her toes, foot rot was suspected
. Her tongue was turning pastel, her teeth might be infected!

Then Cindy had some inspiration, cause she'd raised a kid or two.
When they got down and sickly, she knew just what to do.
"Go get the thermometer dear, we'll check her body heat."
As her kid ran into the house she responded simply.. "SWEET!"

They'ze just a couple of problems which required consideration.
And the sheep to human conversion would require some calculation.
What is the melting point of lambs and do I need some lube?
And just where the heck do I insert that tiny capillary tube?

She tried it in the ear at first, - that wooley come unstrung.
And she filled her pet with mercury when trying "under tongue".
SO.. this here's where we pick up the story I began at first.
"Cause where she next put that gadget, it became submersed.

That sheep was pulling vacuum, and that little tube of glass.
Disappeared completely like a green paintball in grass.
Cindy tried to talk it out, but what she failed to comprehend.
That little fleecy ruminants' ears wuz on the other end!

"Fishing?" Cindy queried, " just what on earth do you mean?"
Tho down deep she really knew, she ain't no prudish queen.
So she did deep breathing exercises, planned the angle of attack.
Long story short she dove right in an' got her gizmo back.

Now right here's where I first heard this sordid little story.
Whilst eating beans and cornbread that come from Cindy's inventory.
I really tried to stay all positive, but I'll admit to my chagrin.
I plum' lost my appetite knowing where that Farr gal's hands have been!!

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

At a ward beans and cornbread gathering, Cindy Farr who is the wife of our Stake President Mitch Farr related how she had once "fished" a lost thermometer from the south end of a sheep. This confession prompted a little poem in which I may well have taken a bit of liberty with the "whole truth".


Hometown -- limerick
You can throw rocks at my dog, or mis-coil my rope,
you can even make light of my girth.
You may dent my truck, but if your goal is bad luck,
then just demean the town of my birth.

You may love your horse or your big trophy buckle,
or that cute little Queensland pup.
Fer most of you men, yer wife makes top ten.
Number one is the place you growed up.

'Cause it just don't matter your status in life,
or how high you can pile all your stuff.
I'll tell ya the truth, them good folks of yer youth.
Are always there when the goin' gets tough.

Taylor's changed quite a bunch since when I was a kid,
For the better some would infer.
Now I nearly drowned 'neath the bridge they tore down,
An' there's no ditches where they once were.

No cows on the streets, the dogs "r leashed up,
The pickle car finally gave up the ghost.
And though I may be naive, I think old Jodie McCleave,
is the part of Taylor that I miss the most.

Speed's is long gone, the swimmin' pool's been filled in,
Lillywhites closed down long ago.
And I recall when some snitch, told the Bishop we played Pitch,
in the back room of Tick Tocks Texaco.

Now folks, Politics and Religion can sure yank my chain,
but they're second and third on my list.
If you just praise Harry Reid, I'm a bit off of my feed,
but Taylor bashing puts my shorts in a twist.

Now you'll find that I'm a pretty even keeled guy.
I'm normally not real easily riled.
But make fun of Taylor, then like a drunk Sailor,
I've been know to simply go wild.

I told this guy at a ropin' that I'd growed up in Taylor.
"Ya mean South Snowflake", he said with a smile.
Well, I lost my cool, I even started to drool.
They'll probably find his remains in awhile.

If you love it so much, then how comes you left?
The query which demands a reply.
Wuz by popular demand, my departure not planned.
The town Fathers all waving goodbye.

But I'll be moseyin' back to this town that I love.
My past deeds have been mostly forgot.
I bought some nice real estate where I can sleep late.
A neat little four by eight plot!!

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

My hometown is Taylor, Arizona. I left there many years ago, but still love the place. Snowflake is about 3 miles to the North of Taylor and there was a friendly rivalry between the towns when I was a lad.


~In the Rain!~
It's been said that cowboys ain't a right religious sort.
They don't have a numbered pew, their actions come up short.
Cowboys seldom pray a prayer that other folks can hear.
An' sometimes they work Sundays in the calvin' time of year.

Their language may be salty, an' their actions sometimes rude.
Some cowboys got no patience when dealing with a dude.
They may have a "D" string where their "E" string ought to be.
An' some'd play a few notes out of tune on your MP3.

But don't let all this fool you, just because they ain't refined.
They mostly got religion, it just ain't the showy kind.
'Cause God is in their every day, He's kinda intertwined.
An' if you rode a week with them, I think you'd probably find, --

that though they wear no suit an' tie, their boots are worn an' frayed.
Their church house is range land wherein nothing is manmade.
That they have a noisy reverence, church folks sometimes overlook.
Their sermons preached in actions, an' not from any book.

He finds God in the air he breathes, an' in the horse he rides.
An' often offers silent thanks, fer stuff that He provides.
For him the Lord is in the grass that comes up in the spring.
He's in the windmill turnin', an' meadow larks that sing.

So don't judge their religion, 'cause I think that we'd all agree.
That how someone appears don't define their theology.
'Cause folks who's bench is the amen corner every Sabbath morn.
May be on Monday less a rose, - a bit more of a thorn.

And whilst a cowboy may not find his God in house of prayer.
An' on the seventh day his church may be one of solitaire.
You should know his hymns of praise have a soothing strain.
Fer cowboys, God is in his soul and God is in the rain!

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


~Cowboys Ain't too sharp!~
It's pain and tribulation that makes up a cowboy's life.
Some days'd be a total blank if it weren't fer stife.
His old Ford won't stay in third , his drinker sprang a leak.
His dog got in the chicken coop, his stream is gettin' weak.

So why don't he just chuck it in an' take a job that pays.
Find a nine to fiver, an' only work five days.
He could take of holidays, set a buck or two aside.
Get Dockers an' a Polo shirt, an' never go outside.

Maybe drive a new sports car, or buy a big old SUV.
Perhaps a bit of schoolin', an' get him a degree.
Life would soften up a lot, when you set that cowboy stuff aside.
An' you could get yer wife that stuff you promised 'r as a bride.

It all seems fairly cut an' dried, the wisdom of this move.
They'ze no doubt his bottom line would certainly improve.
So why the hesitation, ranching life is fer a sap.
So toss away them Levi's an head down to the GAP.

All thoughts worth considering, but it just ain't gonna be.
No cowboy worth a lick of salt would join the bourgeoisie.
And give up all the benefits he's worked so hard to get.
"Sides he's expectin' any day for his stock to split.

Just the retirement package is enough to tempt a priest.
"Course you don't collect on it until you're well deceased.
An' ya got that sick leave package, so when you get a touch of flu.
No need to show up fer work, at least till breakfast is all through.

And he has an inclement weather clause, so he don't venture out.
'Cept when it's calm or rainy or there's a hurricane or drought.
And he don't work on weekends without gettin' double pay.
Unless of course it falls on a Sunday or maybe Saturday.

"Sides he swore to his ownself that he'd not give up this gig.
To sell out to the city life would be a grand renege.
So he'll just keep a showin' up at dawn of just before.
He'll have that same ol' Bailey hat that he's always wore.

He'll saddle up and ride all day, 'cause that's what cowboys do.
it's his job to help supply the stuff to make beef stew.
"Cause you see Cowboy's are forever loyal to the spread.
But I submit they sure ain't the sharpest tool out in the shed.

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


~Global Warmin'~

I use them little twirly bulbs, though they cost five bucks apiece.
I got my FarmAll tractor, burnin' old used burger grease.
To show "I'm there", I hug a tree purt near every day.
Bought me some Carbon credits from a feller on eBay.

Built my house of straw and mud, spayed my old male cat.
I hardly ever exhale, -- I even voted DEMOCRAT!
Solar Panels dot my ranch, like a carousel in jade.
My Guru is ol AlGore, I been drinkin' his kool-aid.

I should have seen it comin', could I just be any dumber?
But when I'ze a kid in Arizona, we just called it summer.
--Now it's Global Warmin', seems the ozones' got a crack.
The icebergs are all meltin', Dinosaurs are comin' back.

Human's is the culprit, least that's what Al allows.
But part of the dilemma is flatulence by cows.
I can make a difference, as I've got a batch of those.
I bought me some duct tape, an' some one inch garden hose.

I'd tried selective breeding, traded off the gassy shells.
Hung up a bunch of incense strips to dampen out the smells.
We worked on their potty manners, taught them to be more quiet.
I spiked their hay with Beano, put them on a low grain diet.

Experimented usin' diapers, but the laundry was a chore.
I even tried a PVC valve installed in their back door.
But I'm reminded that recycling is the goal by us that's green.
So I just ran that garden hose betwixt and in between--

--the South end and the North end of each and every beast.
To redirect the noxious gas which often is released.
The theory is the second trip will clean up the pollution.
I thought I had it all worked out, a grand poo-poo solution.

I welded up a baffle, built a sorter and a bracket.
To take out all the solid stuff, and also neatly stack it.
I even had a bypass valve to help prevent the bloat.
If they got into clover, I could engage it by remote.

Ain't it just a wonder, this here cow technology?
My Global warmin' battle has likely knocked off one degree!
I turned in fer patent rights, have a kit with all the parts.
You can buy 'em on the web, selected Feed Stores and Wal-marts.

Sold some local to my neighbors, they're all earth friendly too.
Installed 'em on their livestock, that's the least that I can do.
But I just put out a recall, I need a bit more R & D.
Perhaps an impact study, after we clean up the debris.

Seems the methane gas built up with each recycle loop.
Then Holsteins wuz the Goodyear blimp, a walkin' "big bang" troupe.
Unnoticed, all them garden hoses had kinda got eroded.
An' when Hank lit up a cigarette, my whole dang herd exploded.

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


Cowboy Wedding
The groom had on a Bailey Straw, an' worn out Acme boots.
His line wuz just some good ole boys in Corduroy suits.
He'd snugged up his bright red scarf with a snakeskin wrap.
A borrowed trophy buckle mostly covered up his lap.

Bales of hay adorned the room, - old saddles everywhere.
Folks could just admire the stuff, or use 'em as a chair.
A Bud Light sign blinked on an' off, which helped to set the mood.
Reflecting off the pool cue rack, which made it more subdued.

A sculpture made of tumbleweeds was kinda mediocre.
The featured art, a Coolidge print of dogs a playin' Poker.
Spurs an' Chaps an' brandin irons were placed with tender care.
Looked like a day at roundup,-- 'cept not as debonair.

Then the bride come floatin' in wearin' skin tight pants.
As did her Ma, her Grandma, and two old spinster aunts.
Earrings made of horse shoe nails, attached with velcro clips.
A classy indian concho belt hung loosly 'round her hips.

Her red mane had purple highlights, it was up in pony tails.
Some may think it was tacky, -- but it matched her fingernails.
She had an iridescent tattoo of a flagpole and a snake.
Once again--- tacky!!, But it matched her wedding cake.

Her attendant wore a halter top and riders down to there.
Whether coming or a going, there was cleavage everywhere.
The motif was a bit fong shuay, tho it didn't quite seem to fit.
To even get to ugly they'd have to trade up just a bit.

The Bridesmaid wore her vest an' skirt of blue and tangerine.
The one her mom sewed up fer her when she'ze rodeo queen.
I bet you get the picture of just where this here poem is heading.
A real fer sure, no frills left out, cowboy/redneck wedding!

The legion hall was all decked out and rented by the hour.
They'd hold the weddin' up till five then start the baby shower.
Most folk brought a little gift, but in case you forgotten yours.
She's registered down at Wal-mart and both the dollar stores.

Hors d'oeuvres wuz lard soaked fry bread with little chunks of steak.
Dutch oven beans an' taters, topped off with Texas cake.
The cooks wuz family, one an' all, just like it ought to be.
Each tossing in some this an' that to their own recipe.

Old trucks an' goosneck trailers filled up the parking lot.
Little wranglers met the folks an' took the gifts they brought.
The guest book was a spiral pad, the pen from Jack's feed store.
On a Powder River brandin' table to fill out the décor.

The preacher swaggered in the barn, full of puff an' bluster.
He had a Star of David sewn on his floor length duster.
He sported chops an' handlebars, two toned by countless chews.
An' used some Redneck verbage that preachers ought not to use.

"Circle in", the groom cried out, beer cans hit the ground.
The bride slipped her boots back on, the guests all gathered 'round.
Then they shuffled down the aisle lined with rope and tack,
to strains of Hank & Willie from the jukebox in the back.

The Bride's Mom who'd been sedated by a pint of cheap Tokay,
was sobbing when her hubby gave their little girl away.
An' the ceremony started at straight down half past four.
"it wasn't done when the ropin' crowd started edgin' toward the door.

"Cause the jackpot kicked off at five Oclock, and I think we all agree.
That certain things in cowboy life take on priority.
The bride an' groom would meet up later at the old arena bar.
Leave on their Vegas Honeymoon to attend the NFR.

The ceremony weren't quite Kosher, although "I do's" were surely said.
An' I don't mean to question that them two are safely wed.
But the preacher had to go high gear and they finished on the run.
He didn't pronounce them man an' wife, just muttered "get er done"!!

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


Doolittle's Dilemna
It happened one day about three summers ago when I'ze headin' to a rodeo.
It was listed on the brochure as a "quaint little town" in upstate New Mexico.
Didn't show up on my map nor on my TomTom, an' I couldn't get cell phone connections.
But like any feller I figgers I can find it, I ain't about to stop an' ask fer directions.

So I drives back an' forth, crossed my path several times, frustration was settin' in.
I'ze talkin' to myself, I'ze answering some, like Forest Gump drunk on bathtub gin.
So I'ze on this two track back road, a short cut I'ze thinkin' though to where I sure didn't know.
I'd convinced myself that wherever I went that it was some better than the status quo.

I'd been drinkin' Bud Light since daybreak, at war with a full twelve pack.
'Cause of my age I'ze shuttin' down now an' then to launch a counter attack.
I spots a fence post up the road just a bit that seemed to be callin' my name.
My kidneys were startin' to smoke again, I'ze gonna stop and put out the flame.

I'd barely commenced when out of the trees comes a dog just like he'd been called.
He walked to my truck put his ear 'gainst my fender, my mission was temporarily stalled.
"Hi feller" I offered, "hows yer day goin'", - - you folks think talkin' to dogs is odd?
I'ze 'bout to continue my urgent task, when the pooch say's "just fine" with a nod.

Well, folks I lost all interest in Kidneys an' beer, cause that hound dog further declared.
"I couldn't help notice yer truck's got a miss" he offered as I swallered and stared.
"Sounds like bad float or a stuck needle valve, it's carburation no doubt"!
Then he turned back in the trees an' left me standin' there with my tongue an stuff hangin' out.

I crawls back in my old truck, heads on down the road, the rodeo was completely forgot.
I mutters, "takes more than twelve beers to make talkin' dogs", or at least that was my thought.
"Bout a mile or two more an' I sees this old feller just a wanderin' to and fro.
I'ze needin' to share but I knew talkin' dogs were right up there with a UFO.

It entered my mind that it was some sort of trick, perhaps wuz robotics involved.
Some nerdy kid with a science experiment, this pooch puzzle I'ze sure could be solved.
I ain't no greenhorn that buys into a scam, -- 'cept that one time I bought an Emu.
But I knowed all I needed was someone to bounce off of, just needed to talk it through.

I related to that stranger my meeting canninus, tho I'ze afeared that he'd think me daft.
"Maybe old Allen Funt had his candid camera" says I, he just nodded and quietly laughed.
"Oh" says the old feller, "I wouldn't worry too much, I'm sure it caught you by surprise".
"But before you get further concerned, there's something that you should realize".

Probably just some local prankster thought I, I'ze wishin' I'd a takin' a different route.
"Cause 'cept fer wino's an' Doolittle we all know that dogs can't elocute!
"Was it a big old off colored Shepherd who's momma may have been scared by a Shar Pei"?
"Could be"
I nodded in assent, "more like a badger with a real bad toupee .

" "He's mine" offered my new found friend in reply, " I know that old dog like the back of my hand".
"If yer really frettin' 'bout yer old Dodge truck, they'ze somthin' 'bout my mutt you should understand".
"I think his gray matter leaked out of his ears, you know kinda like them Obama voters".
"Cause that old hounds a whiz on transmissions, but we just ignore him when he talks 'bout motors"!

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


I wanna be a cowboy!!
They invited me down to Prescott to recite a poem or three.
But I ain't right sure my stuff is really cowboy poetry!
I don't even own a Goosneck, my pastures rented out.
I borrowed this here Stetson, I'm burdened with some doubt-

About my cowboy bona fides , shute I don't even sport a "stash.
So now behind this microphone I've done broke out in a rash!
I hereby tender my apologies, 'cause I fear my little rhyme,
May result in my arrest, -- a poet counterfeiting crime!

But I subscribe to "Western Horsemen", and I once went to a roping.
I've even eaten Mountain Oysters, so I guess I'm just a hoping-
That you all will cut me a bit of slack, - I own some piggin' strings.
A store bought trophy buckle, an' one of them halter nose loop things.

I wish I owned a pen of steers, or had some State lease land.
A mangy blue tick heeler, or even had a registered brand.
Where do they set the bar my friends, is my cowboy boots enough?
"Cause I ain't a real true cowboy, although I own some cowboy stuff.

But let me share my plan of action, so if in some future year,
I'm invited back to Prescott, or just sneak in an' volunteer.
I'll be prepared to dazzle you with all kinds of cowboy lore.
You'll think I'm Waddie Mitchell or the Ghost of Louis Lamour.

"Cause I'll make myself a cowboy with evidence you can't refute.
I plan to lose a dally finger, -- buy an' old squeeze chute.
I may procure some classic ropers, take a stroll in the corral.
So my appearance will be all cowboy and my aroma will as well.

I'll find a dis-barred surgeon to help get me cowhand qualified.
He'll turn me bowlegged just like fer years I'd sat astride, --
Some big ol' paunchy quarter horse with stirrups set too low.
An' perhaps he can snip a tendon, give me at least one pigeon toe.

I'll been nibbling on range booster, I'll burn cow dung incense.
I want my stuff as cowboy as a four strand bob wire fence.
So this comin' year, as they say, I'll try to really "cowboy up"
. I plan to be the same to Vaquero land as "Dixie" is to a cup.

But I fear I still won't toe the mark,- that I will yet be out of place.
My new moustache will not impress you, - I'll die on second base.
But I'm hoping wranglers everywhere will support me in due course.
And I'll be crowned a REAL live cowboy, --- if I can just learn to ride a horse!

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


It ain't all about the dollars--

Horse tradin' just ain't fer sissies, it's a truly manly art.
So I suggest you lend me yer ear before you even start.
Perhaps I can help to guide you, give you some good advice.
'Cause friend I've seen the tiger, I've surely paid the price.

Like on a pack of Lucky Strikes, they should require a label.
Glued on each and every horse and tacked on every stable.
"Trading for this bangtail may be harmful to your health!"
And in bold type just below, "It will affect your wealth."

Selling them is a no brainer, it's impossible to really lose.
Like a pimple clearing up before it begins to ooze.
A bale of hay at fifteen bucks, and Sweetpro supplement.
Vet bills stacked on the counter and pricey pasture rent.

While horse owners ain't the sharpest tool, that is of course until, --
they're able to find a sucker, who's weak or mentally ill.
And then they start prevaracatin', 'bout their noble steed.
To help convince the buyer, that he's got just what you need.

"She's out of Muy Bueno, sired by Grand king thirty four."
"His dam.- a mare named Lovely girl who was sired by Guarantor."

That sets yer mind to overtime and your ego simply soars.
You'd like to own a quarter horse with a blood line better'n yours.

He'll tell you how that little mare saved his life a time or two.
"She can pert near read yer mind, knows just what you want to do."
"Her trot is like a ballet dancer, her walk a lovely minuet."
"She can canter all day long and never break a sweat."

It's like a jackpot roping, the whoppers vast and myriad.
Right up there with that one that you can keep your doctor,,- period!
If you watch him really close you'll see his nose begin to grow.
This guy ain't no horseman, he's Harry Reid or Pinocchio!

"She's good with kids and old folk, she's gentle as a lamb."
"And she'll always keep the slack if you get into a jamb."

Reason and common sense begin to drift out of your ears.
His accolades have you verklempt, pert near brought you to tears.

Here is where my advise comes in to all you horse owner wannabes.
When you find yourself bedazzled, - the seller's puttin' on the squeeze.
Just ask yourself this simple question before you sign the check,--
"is it just barely possible that I'm about to build a wreck?"

He knows he's almost got you, he can see it in your eyes.
So when he names his price it comes as no surprise.
That you reach for your debit card with no negotiation.
You don't even counter offer, your brain has left the station.

And I'm left standing here with good advise that's completely been ignored.
As you load your brand new pet which you simply can't afford.
And head on down to your corral and as you back her out.
Your kids got smiles as big as platters as they all mill about.

They spend all day climbin' on and off your new acquisition.
While yer by the pickup tryin' to get the wife's permission.
But the laughs an' squeals of pure delight soften her up some.
An' pretty soon you're the hero fer this lame brain thing you've done.

It's then I have to acknowledge that it's barely possible perhaps.
To actually do a right good thing during a momentary lapse.
There are times it may be beneficial to ignore us learned scholars.
"Cause on occasion what one buys ain't all about the dollars.

© 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.