Cowboy Poetry

My pal Hal Swift sent me another. Offered as relief from the elections drama.


The Cowpokes' Roll-Away Saloon
by Hal Swift

In the early history of the Golden West,
along the Arizona, Utah border,
there was only one bar where a thirsty cowpoke
could set down an' place 'im an order.

But north to south, Kanab to Fredonia,
the cowpokes' spirits was low.
Seems that lone saloon kept runnin' outta booze,
cuz the ol' freight wagon's so slow.

Some a the boys started stashin' their stuff,
so's to sneak a sip durin' the day.
But by late afternoon their off-key singin'
would allus give 'em away.

The cowpokes felt they was bein' held down,
an' it made 'em both mean an' cross.
 An' they got no help from the old, married men,
whose wives seem to think they're the boss.

If you happened to be too close to the house
when y'stopped to wet yer whistle,
you kin bet one'd see ya, an' give you a look
like she maybe jist swallered a thistle.

Some men got fired, and their wives got upset,
and declared no more drinkin' at all.
But the drinkin' continued in all sorts a spots.
One boy had a bar in a stall!

Things only got worse as the days went by.
The men was all mopin' aroun',
'til someone suggested that they build another
saloon on the outskirts of town.

They decided the state line would be a good place,
an' they'd build it on rollers becuz
then they could move it if worse come to worse,
an' the womenfolk found where it was.

So that's what they did, the boys built their saloon,
south of town maybe four miles or so.
They built a road to it, on top of the dunes,
where the ladies weren't likely to go.

Kanab's side of the border's where they parked it first,
an' ever'thin' hummed along fine.
Then the gals found out, an' went to set it on fire,
but the men rolled it over the line.

"We're in Arizona!" the boys all hollered,
"so you better stop right where you're at!"
The women said, "Okay, but leave it right there.
Roll it back, an' it's gone, like that!"

Then Fredonia's ladies decided they'd give
their Kanabian sisters a hand.
The men tried to roll their saloon back north,
but the thing bogged down in the sand.

The Kanab ladies heard, an' come back on the run,
an' you knew that the drinkers'd lose.
The saloon couldn't roll, so it set there an' burned,
with thirty-six kegs fulla booze.

With alla that alcohol burnin' at once,
the flames was angry an' loud.
The ladies was dancin' an' singin' with joy,
til a shout went up from the crowd.

Seems some a the cowpokes had stayed with the booze,
an' was there when the ceilin' fell in.
A collection was took up to care fer the widders,
an' a prayer was said fer the men.

Where the tragedy happened is all desert now.
Ghosts play in the light of the moon.
An' some folks say they've heard off-key singin'
comin' from down on the dune.

                           --0--

Based on a true story, reported in the
Southern Utah News by Dixie Brunner
August 21, 2002 Special Section p.8

And the cowboys in Kanab still do  their drinking in Fredonia.

Cowboy Humor

My great uncle Len was negligent in maintaining his vehicles. He had a 1958 Plymouth with the biggest engine available and the push button transmission. The performance had suffered to the point he would floorboard the gas then hit drive. My father was the opposite. Appearance didn’t matter to him. I don’t remember him ever washing any vehicle. Under the hood a NASCAR team would have a hard time improving the performance.

One day Uncle Len left the Plymouth in our yard while one of his nephews took him on a three day trip. My father, who couldn’t resist a strange vehicle, drove it to town. Appalled by the car’s condition, he stopped at the auto parts store for new points, plugs, plug wires, oil and filters, etc. After a long afternoon, the Plymouth was freshly tuned and serviced. By good fortune he left it parked facing out our lane.

The lane was a straight half mile of a narrow two rut gravel road. It crossed a railroad track, an irrigation ditch, and a large canal before joining the paved state highway.

Uncle Len returned to pick up his car. After starting it, he floored it and punched drive. We watched as he fishtailed up the lane, sawing the steering wheel back and forth, until he got it slowed down. Pulling onto the paved highway he spun the tires and got the Plymouth sideways.

About two hours later he returned. My father was trying hard to keep a straight face. Finally Uncle Len said, “Damn it Bob, when you shoe a man’s horse, you might at least warn him.”

My father was a great horse farrier. That picture is circa 1956. Not me holding the horse; I never had that nice a hat.