Hi, I'm Paul Hatch and I lived in Joseph City, Arizona for 40 years and the wife and I recently moved to our new home in Taylor. I've written cowboy poetry and other doodlings for nearly all of those years, but usually just laid them on a shelf, or threw them away when I'ze through. Little known to me, several years back my kids surprised me on my birthday with a book which they had put together with stuff they had been digging out of the trash can, or otherwise keeping. They missed a lot of them, but I was totally shocked that they had found a bunch that I thought were just memories. In recent years I've added a few to the bunch and posted some of them here. The title above is what they gave to my book.

Here's a couple of my ditties which I thought I'd drop on this page so you'll have a better idea why it could be referred to as "Junk Poetry". As you will notice right away, not all of my stuff is of a "Cowboy" nature, I just write what I feel and sometimes it's fair, and sometimes it's lousy, but always it's a good experience, cause I'm called upon to think.. I suppose it would be more proper to call myself a Country Poet. I do recommend to one and all the art of writing, whether it is poetry, stories, your journal, or just doodling, it is a relaxing pastime. My real love is writing spiritual stuff and some found it's way on this site, but for the most part I keep them to myself or share them with friends I write them for.

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

  • -THE OL' 7X BULL!-
  • ~~FRIENDS~~
  •  BULL 1, DUDE 0--
  • ~WHEN PIGS FLY!~  (Christmas poem)
  •  BULL - ONEY
  •  MY DAD
  • ~IT'S A WHAT?~
  •  MY FLAG!
  • ~LUM N' PURDY~
  • ~OLD SAM~
  • ~Rodeo Chediski~
  • ~Hook 'er up !!~
  • ~A Cowboy Christmas~
  • ~Double Play~
  • ~Cow Creation!~
  • ~The choice~
  • ~Pedro's Menu!~
  • ~In The Bog!~
  • -A Country Cowboy Poet-
  •  ~2nd Worst!~
  •  ~~Cowboy CPA~~
  •  ~A.S.P.C.A.~
  •  Shootin' the Bull 
  •  The Diagnosis
  •  The NAStoad 500
  •  ~~Cowboy Jury~~
  •  ~Politically incorrect~
  •  -Mr. Goodwrench-
  •  How hot is it?
  •  ~Vern 'n Virgil~
  •  ~misunderstandin~
  •  ~Cowboy Poet Nightmare~
  •  ~Lee Fairbanks~
  •  ~Gene-alogy~
  •  ~hometown~
  •  ~In the Rain!~
  • ~Cow Down!~
  •  Cowboy Wedding
  •  Dust to Dust --- to dust--
  •  Cowboys Ain't too sharp!  
  •  Cindy's fishing trip..  
  •  Talkin' Dog  
  •  I wanna be a cowboy!!  
  •  Do they descriminate?  
  •  Cowtelligence!  
  •  It ain't all about the dollars  
  • ~THE STUMP~   (a true story -more or less)

  •    Maybe you'd like to have a laugh or two??
    Here are a few of the standard cowboy jokes..


    I was awarded the "TOP SITE" award for my website from
    Grandma's Closet.
    This is an honor and I appreciate it. Don't make anything on my stuff so it's kinda nice just to have an "atta boy" once in awhile!

    Frisco Cowboy..

    He'z a lookin' for work, wanted to ride for the spread,
    a cowboy with salt, so he said..
    But if, as they say, a books judged by it's cover,
    he could be a bullrider instead.

    His Resitol lid was high crowned and flashy,
    a shirt brighter than Joseph's coat.
    Pointy toed boots with lizard skin scallops,
    in the shape of a musical note.

    The old mare that he rode was so neatly groomed,
    his mane had a Paul Mitchell trim.
    A little silver earring with a turquoise nugget,
    the horse one, the other for him.

    But the crowning eye catcher that reached out and grabbed you,
    PINK CHAPS with bright red sunbursts.
    They could easily have belonged to old Don Gay,
    or that possibly that could be reversed.

    He rode into the yard that bright summer morning,
    more or less from Frisco direction.
    Though you and I know that town's reputation,
    I ain't one for casting no reflection.

    The old ranch foreman hired that young feller,
    and gave him a bunkhouse assignment.
    That kid started off on his very first day,
    to bring this ranch crew some refinement.

    Had a lovely down comforter with matching pillow,
    his window had mini-blinds with sheers.
    In his little corner of the old ranch bunkhouse,
    the walls and the ceilings had mirrors.

    It was usual procedure on any cow spread,
    to assign a nickname to each man.
    For reasons I've listed and a few I'll yet mention,
    we called this here kid Dandy Dan.

    He went with the hands to the Big Valley saloon,
    at the end of each month on payday.
    While the rest of the boys drank whiskey and beer,
    Dandy preferred chardonay.

    He established himself as a real malo vaquero,
    for the rodeo crown he contended,
    Though of all of the cowhands, he's the only one,
    who roped with his pinky extended.

    Now I don't mean to suggest that he was unusual,
    aw, what the heck, shore I do.
    To be plum correct, his gender placement was certainly under review.

    Now cowboys ain't dumb, least all of them ain't,
    was clear as a Madonna's lingerie.
    That Dandy Dan wasn't wired quite to code,
    Folks, this cowboy was a little-----bouquet -

    Among thorns to use the vernacular.
    So you can imagine our relief.
    When Dandy Dan announced he had him a squeeze,
    our relief however, was quite brief.

    He slipped into town ever' chance that he had,
    We'ze takin' bets on who the gal was.
    I put four bits on the livery mans daughter,
    but I'd never collect it, because,---

    The bettin' pool closed one Monday A.M.,
    Dandy Dan was nowhere to be found.
    We suspected foul play, feared for the worst,
    We loosed the old trackin' hound.

    I, myself looked high and low,
    rode up every valley and draw.
    I just knowed I'd find his coyote chewed carcass,
    But then in the distance I saw.-

    Old Jose Bautista and his band of woolies,
    Jose might help with a clue.
    I tuned up my old anglified spanish,
    and asked him a question or two.

    He stroked his old beard and looked into the sky,
    thinking was hard at his age.
    Cause just when he got a thought about thunk,
    his old brain would just plum' dis-engage.

    But then it came out as he re-lived yesterday,
    As he jabbered, his ol' eyeballs revolved.
    And when he run down and returned to his flock,
    the Dandy Dan mystery was solved..

    Dos Hombres, he'd said, and uno caballo,
    rode double past the San Simon Mission.
    "He's headin' toward Frisco", Jose indicated,
    "with Brucie, the local beautician".

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

      Paul D. Hatch....

    God's Cathedral..

    No walls of wood to resonate,--
    no ceilings with reflective vanes.
    Nor floors with thick, plush carpets,
    no stained glass window panes.

    There are no padded, form fit seats,
    no balconies high above.
    No ticket booths with waiting lines,
    nor ushers in starched white gloves.

    Yet on the stage of this grand hall,
    with curtains open wide,
    with plains and verdant valleys,
    and mountains on every side,------

    are staged such great and grand events,
    produced by God's own hand.
    Admission free to all who'll come,
    to natures great grandstand.

    Each season brings a different stage,
    each day a different scene.
    There's birth and death throughout,
    with real living in between..

    Those God blessed souls who spend their time,
    in this cathedral grand.---
    Often fail to fully appreciate,
    that all of this was planned....

    Not by men in tailored suits,
    in fancy limousines..
    Not by great financial backers,
    not by Kings nor Queens.

    This showplace, this grand cathedral,
    where all are welcomed in.
    With no regard for dress codes,
    nor asking where you've been.

    Was place here by our Maker,
    a thoughtful birthday present.
    He built the sets, provides the lights,
    all to make life pleasant..

    So, next time you hear it said,
    that you just don't have class.
    Your friends are opera goers,
    they have an annual pass.

    You're oft considered lacking couth,
    you have no savoir faire.
    Their trips to see the Phantom,
    are trips that you don't share.

    Invite them some warm spring day,
    to take a trip with you.
    Just a ways in any direction,
    most anywhere will do.

    Just walk to find some privacy,
    where none will interrupt.
    You're now in God's Cathedral,
    the curtain's going up!!!!
    Paul D. Hatch This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

      Paul D. Hatch..   TO THE TOP

    A Bear count...   (A.K.A. "Bruce's story")

    They'ze lots a consternation, an' wringin' hands galore.

    'bout birds n' snails, an' crawly things, that won't be here no more.

    The egghead types, with floppy disks an' printouts by the reams--

    are index filin' all creation,-- er at least, so it seems.

    From elephants ta killer whales, ta things sub-microscopic.

    They're funded well by Bill an' Al an' others philanthropic.

    Newts n' gnats, an' great horned bats are tallied scored an' logged.

    Ten zillion micro bits are stored,--  the I.B.M.s get clogged.

    They've set in place criteria, most accurate they insist--

    determining which critters make- the endangered species list!!

    Allow a fer example how these counts is done with care.

    A most accurate guesstimation of the noble Grizzly Bear..

    One square mile is staked an' strung, the P.H.D.s are called.

    They wander every hill and dale,  scientifically involved!

    To make the endangered list, the criteria is quite clear.

    He makes the list if not one Bear- bites a doctorate type rear..

    May I suggest another view, tho some may think me nuts.

    There may be Grizzly Bears a plenty,--- just need a few more butts!!!

    The eco-system is inter linked, everything fits in the chain.

    'cept, say enviros, ozone depletion, global warmin' and acid rain.

    The cat they say depends on mice. Nuts are crucial to squirrels.

    Bovines need grass, as does the steed, an' oysters is important to pearls.

    Near every critter is one of the links,- the roach, the flea and the rabbit.

    One thing only with no real need, a cell mass they call "Bruce Babbitt".....

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


    One of very few politicians with whom caricature artists have
    a hard time because he looks like a caricature in real life!
    He is by far the most anti-property rights and the most destructive Secretary of the Interior in American history! (Or was up until the Obama Administration!)

      TOP      ------Or if you came from "INVOLVED"....

    The Ol' 7X Bull...

    It won't take too long when cowmen gather 'round,
    ta start braggin' 'bout stock that they own.
    It may be a steer er a heifer perhaps,
    er a bay, er a strawberry roan.

    But fer reasons unknown, perhaps it's male ego,
    one thing'll come up ya can trust.
    The performance an' grandeur uv their favorite bull
    will in detail be thurly discussed.

    The bull ta cow ratio an' the size uv his calves,
    an' the quality a the stock that he sires.
    The truth'll hold sway fer the first round a stories,
    then those cowmen'll all become liars.

    "One bull I owned", ol' Roy exclaimed,
    "could cover my entire spread".
    "He could get all my cows pregnant in a month an' a half",
    "I run 'bout eighty nine head".

    "Well, he'd work nite an' day ta get the job done",
    "never stoppin' fer rain er fer cold".
    "Oh yeah", Roy added, "I pert near fergot",
    "his calves were all born neatly polled".

    "Now that sounds like a fairly decent ol' bull",
    ol' Jack said in a right doubtful voice.
    "But some bulls is fair an' some bulls is good",
    "my Angus bull, he's downright choice."

    "In this here day a scientific ranchin',
    when computers is a ranchers' main tool",
    "there-on are kept calf gender records",
    "they'ze more profit ta be made on a bull."

    The truth wuz the victim uv Jacks' next remark,
    He know'd his tale had ta top Roys.
    "That ol' Angus", he said's, "the best bull in the county,
    "His children is one hundred percent boys"!

    Now, ol' Stump'd been listnin', takin' it all in.
    Fer his tale he pulled out all a the stops.
    "So if yer' a wearin' yer boots, as ya otta be doin',
    make sure ya have yer high tops".

    "I bought me this bull", he said without flinchin',
    "frum that ol' 7x mother outfit".
    "'cuz among his offspring weren't found any bulls,
    'ner a single calf with a tit".

    The silence wuz deafnin', the cowmen befuddled,
    ya could hear their brain gears a spinnin'.
    in bull story tellin', they'd shore placed an' showed,
    but wuz plain ol' Stump wuz a winnin'.

    "We ain't heard such a thing", the two cowmen said,
    "in all uv our ranchin' careers".
    "lts easy; sald Stump "my ol' 7x bull,
    just never fathered nuthin' but steers"!!

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

       Paul D. Hatch    TOP


    The old clock had just struck January-
    an' I'ze cold plum' ta the bone.
    The icy north wind bit my cheeks,
    as I sat that leggy roan.

    My ear wuz froze, my nose, my hands--
    fact I'ze froze in all my parts.
    Now parts may be parts, but uv utmost import,
    wuz the parts that wuz froze in my shorts.

    I've tried thru the years all sorts a gizmos,
    ta keep my plumin' unfroze.
    A big woolen sock, some down underwear,
    an' some Joe Namath style panty hose.

    I'd tried bib overalls with two pair a pants--
    a custom saddle with fur lined indent.
    If'n I needed to go, 'fore I could undress,
    on occasion I'd already went!

    Well, I decided right then, enough wuz enough-
    after all I'm a space age type guy.
    So I gathered my coins, went ta the city,-
    cold relief I'ze a tryin' ta buy.

    Went ta the feed store, to the cowmen accessories,
    a lookin', tho I knew not fer what.
    I supposed the display'd feature a brass monkey--
    just a holdin his near frozen ---------.

    But I found not a thing, so on with my quest,-
    ta Wrangler, Bar-N, an' the Gap.
    I explained ta the clerks in a sensitive manner,
    'bout the temperature concern a my lap.

    The girl clerks'd mostly giggle an' blush,
    the men clerks'd nod wizely an' wince--
    This wuz fer certain a one gender problem,
    fer Adam, an' ever' man since.

    I wonder why the Maker, in His infinite wisdom,
    who made things so precise an' exact--
    Why not an option fer cold weather cowboys,
    perhaps a push-button retract.

    It wuz finally suggested in a feminine voice,
    by a feller in lavender clothes,
    That down at the Mall, back in a corner,
    wuz a little shop they called "Romeos".

    Now, I been around, an' I knowed this guy
    wuz odd as a three dollar note.
    But then, who'd know more 'bout male type parts,
    than this fairy in the frilly fur coat?

    I'ze just as nervous as an egg suckin skunk,
    in this boutique with whips, chains an' such.
    The clerk gave a warnin', an I whispered "ditto",
    when he said , "just look, but don't touch"!

    Well, they had fur lined pants, complete with lace trim,
    the clerk even suggested, "BEN GAY"?
    I told 'im "NO, I always been straight,
    but what you do shore is okay".

    He showed me a thermos with an adjustable mouth,
    an' a silicon connector that bends.
    A hot water bottle, a thermal jock strap,
    he even suggested, "Depends?"

    We searched every aisle, ever' cranny an' nook,
    then lo, way up in a dormer--
    we found there the answer ta my frigid entreat,
    a box labeled, "YE OLDE WEE WEE WARMER".

    Wuz a pink woolen tube, a battery box,
    with a plug-in marker plainly, "Recharge".
    It came in all sizes ta insure a snug fit,--
    I, of course bought EXTRA LARGE!

    Had it full charged when the next cold snap hit,
    put 'er on,-----it seemed ta fit loose!
    I cinched 'er down tight, flipped it ta "High",
    went out an' forked my cayuse.

    Now, if you ever drank frum a cool mountain stream,
    er kissed a baby's behind.
    The joy you felt on those special occasions,
    would my feelings partially define.

    'Bout three miles come a cold drivin' rain,
    but heck, I'ze warm as a fox.
    My body machine was all warm an' snug,
    'specially the parts wrapped in socks.

    As the rain started soakin', I had an experience,
    which may seem in retrospect strange--
    suffice it ta say, my old wee-wee warmer
    was left there in the mud on the range..

    You've heard the sayin', "Hot as a sheep",
    er, "Warm as a sweet angels hug"?
    How 'bout, "High as a kite", "Full as a tick",
    er, "Snug as a bug in a rug"?

    I'd suggest a sayin' that describes me plum' good,
    when that smokin' pink gadget I aborted--
    I shorely moved, "quick as a bunny",
    that day when my old shorts shorted!!!

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

          Paul D. Hatch..        TOP


    Seems we spend most of our lives a gatherin' stuff,
    yet, no matter the effort there's never enough,--
    to bring us the peace and contentment we seek,
    so we endeavor right hard to improve our technique.

    So's we can pile higher the treasures of earth,
    forgetting it seems the things of real worth.
    How much of our efforts do we really expend,
    keepin' in touch with and visiting a friend.

    Now don't get me wrong, I think things is fine,
    but things can become like an old porcupine.
    They never cause problems when kept in their place,
    but can do some real damage if you attempt an embrace.

    But friends don't much care if you're rich or you're poor,
    they're willing oft times your fits to ignore.
    Then when you've come back from the dark place you went,
    friends are waitin' to undo the time you've mis-spent.

    They know that sometimes what you say ain't too clear,
    sometimes your mouth starts before your brain is in gear.
    But words won't tear up a friendship that's deep,
    words disappear, but the friendship you keep.

    Oh, they want you to do better, they'll help if they can,
    They'll fix up your fence and help you to brand.
    They'll cry when your sad and laugh at your jokes,
    in plain country terms, friends is good folks.

    They'll brag on your good traits, the large and the small,
    They brag on 'em even if you have no good traits at all.
    'Cause friends ain't a lookin' fer what you can do,
    you see, they're your friend just cause you are you.

    So, I'm just a guessin' that when life's journey's done,
    When the final tally's taken, the race has been run,
    That the victor won't be the one with the things,
    The cars and the houses, the bangles and rings.

    I'm just suspectin' that the stuff that we've saved,
    The blue chip portfolio for which we have slaved.
    Won't matter too much when mortality ends,
    What'll matter the most is family and friends!!

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


    He stood there by the horse corral,
    My old friend, Clyde Kincade.
    He's as sad as the shovel man
    In the parade horse poop brigade.

    I hated to see my old pard hurtin',
    so I interrupted his pout.
    "What's the problem Clyde", I says,
    "What's this here all about?"

    Now, 'fore I finish this here rhyme,
    They's somethin' I should explain.
    "bout my old pal, it's oft been said,
    that he ain't got a brain!!

    His deck, they say is one card short,
    his crocheting dropped a stitch.
    His elevator stops before the top,
    his picnics' short a sandwich.

    Was plain that he had struggled long,
    to keep his mares names straight.
    And tho I saw a surefire way,
    to differentiate----

    I thought it best to let old Clyde,
    work it out on his own..
    He, after all tho not too sharp,
    was a real horse man full grown.

    I imagined him in a reflective mood,
    just perched there on a stump.
    Tryin' to figger this thing out,
    not unlike old Forest Gump.

    He told how he had trimmed Jill's mane,
    and that worked for awhile.
    But it growed out and then returned,
    old Clyde's horse ID trial.

    "I painted a spot on Tess", he said,
    "and that worked right fine until",
    "Bye and bye the sun and rain,
    caused the paint to peel".

    "Then I put shoes on old Tess", said he,
    "I thought, a clever plan."
    "But tender feet required a change",
    "I'ze right back where I began".

    Sudden like Clyde's face lit up,
    his grey cells then re-booted.
    A thought began to formulate,
    his critics were refuted!

    He took off like a death row convict,
    who's attemptin' to escape.
    But he returned at warp speed,
    with his trusty craftsman tape.

    He crawled into the horse pen,
    to measure up his Belgian pair.
    He stood 'em careful side by side,
    and then he got up on a chair..

    He measured his team up and down,
    And then from stem to stern.
    He looked like old Bob Villa,
    I'ze a wonderin' what he'd learn?

    He measured them in feet and inches,
    and then in millimeters.
    He measured them in hands and fractions,
    his hands moved like eggbeaters.

    Then old Clyde let out a yell,
    out there in the horse manure.
    For his remuda indentifyin',-
    He said he'd found a cure!!

    Now like I tried to tell you,
    when I first began this rhyme.
    Clyde ain't given much to smarts,
    he's dumb in double time..

    "I got it figgered", he blurted out.
    "A sure fire way to tell".
    "From this day forth I'll know for sure,
    who's Tess and who is Jill...

    "My team", said he, "is clones to me",
    "like two pickles in the brine".
    "Now I got my horse fix in place",
    so said old Clyde Einstein.

    In my own words I'll share with you,
    just what he had to tell.
    That deep dark secret he discovered,
    there in that horse corral..

    As I noted at the onset,
    I don't know just how Clyde missed,-
    the key to tell these mares apart,
    don't take a rocket scientist.

    He discovered that the black mare,
    was 16 hands and a quarter.
    While the white mare measured carefully,
    was xzactly two inches shorter!!!!

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


        Paul D. Hatch      TOP

    Hollywood Nightmare!!

    Sparked by a burrito supreme, I had me a dream,
    or more rightly it was a nightmare..
    'Less you've had one too, you can't know what I went thru,--
    to know you'd a had to been there...

    Like a summer mirage, or exhaust in a garage,
    the vision was blurry and hazy.
    It was laced with suspense, extreme and intense,
    enough to drive a man crazy..

    I suppose that it could have been Hollywood,
    or perhaps Edgar Allen Poe.
    Might just have been gas, which brought this to pass,
    I just fer shore don't quite know.

    With the curtain just lifted, the scene quickly shifted,
    I found myself on center stage..
    Was I Schwarzenegger or Stallone, or a Bruce Willis clone?--
    Or maybe from a bye-gone age?

    I waited and waited until this one had faded,
    but I'm sure they'ze a coming attraction.
    With the proper incentive, I get real inventive,-
    at times it's a Budweiser reaction..

    Somtimes when I'ze drinkin', doin' some Jim Beam type thinkin',
    clutchin' tenaciously to the bar.--
    Tho far from the norm, I'd often transform,--
    into a real macho type movie star...

    Just Friday night last, I'ze a havin' a blast,
    with my pals at the Showlow Elks Lodge.
    With some Bourbon and Gin, you know where I been?--
    In a shoot-out on the main street of Dodge!!!

    With a six-gun, I'ze faster than old Burt Lancaster,
    an' meaner than Jack Palance.
    There weren't any outlaw I couldn't outdraw.
    While I'ze in my alcohol trance.

    But then I tend to digress, I'll have to confess,
    like a sinner on judgment day.
    I guess I'ze a wishin', that this apparition,
    would simply go away...

    Well, I couldn't quite see, who it was that was me,
    in this shrouded and veiled state of mind.
    Perhaps I'ze James Dean, or Steve McQueen,
    or some other "leading man" kind.

    Had a gray trench coat on, kinda like James bond,
    I'ze in a dark and crowded place.
    I realized some later, I'ze in a theater.--
    Still couldn't make out my face..

    I sat way back in a corner, felt like James Garner,
    a case on Rockford Files???
    Was I Peter Falk, could tell if I'd talk,
    using my Colombo detective wiles??

    I squinted real hard, my unconscious mind jarred,
    the mist started to clearing out...
    I'ze about medium tall, 'bout the height of Segal,
    I'ze just about to shout...

    Why the heck did I pick, this X-rated flick,
    In the sleaziest part of town??
    Was this here a trap and why's my hands in my lap,
    and why is my pants pulled down??

    Then the final cloud cleared, the audience jeered,
    don't tell me that I was Mark Ferman!!!
    Even worse I'm afraid, I'ze caught in a raid,
    Ye Gads, I'ze Pee Wee herman!!!!!!

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


    "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.