"1-900-A-COWBOY" Copyright © 1998, by Paul Harwitz (All Rights Reserved.)
I was between jobs and money was getting real tight, So until I found work at a new ranch, I took a job at night. Things had gotten so bad, I'd even begun thinking about selling my saddle, And you know for a cowboy to do that, it just ain't right. They said it was some kind of telephone service. "Well, Mister," I said to the phone-room foreman, "I gotta confess, my voice twangs and drawls and like that." "Don't worry," he said, "you'll be a winner the first time at bat." "What exactly are we selling?" I inquired. "The job agency didn't tell me quite what." "Cowboy," he answered, "what we're selling is you, And in this room, every single other buckaroo." "What?" I demanded. "You mean I'm gonna be Some kind of cowpoke gigalo? Like some kind of outcall?" I thought to myself, if the women are good-looking, This might not be bad work at all. "No," he said. "It's in-call. These East Coast women Are tired of the Yuppie men in whose circles they're swimmin'. They pay to call a real, live cowboy, And I'll tell you, it's a hell of a marketing ploy." "We don't have to talk dirty or nothing, do we?" "No," he said, "keep it clean." "That's good," I said, "'cause I don't want to talk mean To womenfolk. If I did that, I'd be morally broke." "Look over these sample scripts," he said. "By the time you cowboys have these all read, You're usually ready to wing-it and ad-lib, 'Cause at romantic ranch-hand dialogue, you're all so glib." Soon, I took my first call. "1-900-A-Cowboy," I answered, in my most appealing drawl. "Are you a real cowboy?" she asked. "Ma'am," I replied, "I'm as real as an exciting bronc ride. "I'm so real, that I hanker and pine, For female companionship that's oh-so-fine. I can tell you're a lady of impeccable taste. For you to lavish affection on a lonely cowpoke like me would be a waste." "Oh, no," she said, "you're more attractive to me, Than all these pretty-boy actors on prime-time TV." "Well, ma'am, that certainly warms this old range-hand's heart." "Tell me," she asked, "how does your day start?" "This morning," I answered, "I rolled out of my bunk well before sunrise. In fact, some of the stars were still in the skies. I grabbed a quick breakfast from the spread's Cook, And then out for strays I rode to look." I told them gals stories. Some were made-up. Some were true. But when I got done talking with them, There wasn't one of them that was blue. Now, some men will call up women who'll talk to them nasty. But ladies want to hear a man talk to them nice and polite, So they can have wholesome romantic fantasies in dreams at night. Women know that cowhands'll be alluring instead of uptight. Isn't it amazing that what an East Coast man thinks sounds "hick" Makes a lovely, lonely lady's pulse race real quick? If those Eastern dudes didn't spend all their time chasing the dollar, Those lonely ladies wouldn't have to give "1-900-A-Cowboy" a holler.
Visit "Paul's Cowboy Poetry Page": http://www.isis-intl.com/paul/ Contact Paul Harwitz at pharwitz@isis-intl.com
Leader On The Trail
by ken markison
i am a leader like my dad
and like my dad i smell bad
the herd will follow down the trail
they will follow without fail
they trust in me and of coarce
they all think i am a horse
won't change my clothes,no not yet
smell the same as them, yes you bet
sometimes i sleep in my saddle
i herd horses i don't herd cattle
no matter how i cuss and stamp
they won't let me in the camp
my food is left hanging in a tree
nobody wants to be with me
there is a town around the bend
i will be paid it is trails end
then the crew will show their wrath
throw me in the trough for a bath
A Shinning Time by ken markison at summer rendezvous men came to congregate there was heavy henderson he was overweight slowly he walked into camp by the trail he knelt took the pack from his back naught but beaver pelt henderson's eyes were blue and he had sandy hair wore the coat that he took from a grizzly bear he traded with a man his name was hiram weaver rifle,powder and lead shot is what he got and a butchers cleaver nimrod brought a deer and hung it on the spit when we got hungry we ate a chunk of it wild willy drifted into camp and up a grassy knoll turkey in the straw,the big foot stomp and the lovers stroll played them on his fiddle, sweetest ever played it was a slice of heaven in that sunny glade the oldest man in the camp there was old grandpa kicking up his heels and dancing with a squaw dancing in the glade i saw dakota slim he was dancing all alone so i danced with him dancing up a storm not a step we missed laughed and danced but we never kissed you could bet on wrestling or a racing horse you didn't have to bet there wasn't any force he was tall in stature was the chief long bow with his braves behind him standing in a row on the ground with a stick pictures there he drew he didn't have enough to get the devils brew all he had left to trade a few prime pelts of otter trader sam was holding out for his oldest daughter mountain men had to touch just like taking coup it was a shinning time at the rendezvous staggering thru the crowd someone grabed his leg tripped and into the fire went the powder keg every one began to run and then the powder blew many men were burned not just one or two for his mistake turkey tom had to pay we didn't bury turkey tom he just blew away jeb binder was a side winder to him i didn't talk he was best at throwing the good old tomahawk at a blanket toss the shooting it was brisk i scored pretty high and won a horse tail wisk if you were a gambliing man and you also drank when you awoke your mind it was a blank it was not a pretty picture in the early dawn all hung over and your grub stake gone if there was no one looking you might shed a tear chances were you wouldn't redezvous next year good at playing cards that was lucky lou from the bottom of the deck he drew a card or two no joke birdseye lost his poke to him a big surprise couldn't hold him back he went for louies eyes we traded and we talked and we played the games billy buck and birdseye they just traded names gave birdseye shot and powder to fill his rifle bore without this handout he would rendezvous no more they were still singing in voices yet untuned i lit out for the high country as i licked my wound i felt good and i smiled the feeling was sublime i will always remember it was a shinning time
Contact ken markison at kenquien@webtv.net
See Ken's web page at http://community.webtv.net/kenquien/poetryandotherstuff
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