| Well, you don't want to miss it do you? | | | | I wouldn't try that again. |
| The National Cowboy Poetry Gathering is held in | | | | You killed my pa, you filthy crew. |
| Elko, Nevada. This year it starts tomorrow | | | | You shot him and he's dead. |
| (Friday, February 3, 2006 and ends Sunday, | | | | Slim Willy said, Twas Charlie, Son, |
| February 5, 2005). At least I think that is when it | | | | And then he poured out lead. |
| starts and ends. Our newspaper didn't bother to | | | | The banker's kid rolled in the dirt, |
| give the dates. Everybody knows it's on this | | | | But then he came up shootin'. |
| weekend. | | | | Slim Willy fell and ate some hurt, |
| You can't get to Elko from where you live. You | | | | The banker's son was swellin'. |
| could go to or call the Chamber at 775-738-7135 | | | | Pock-faced Pete looked at the two dead oafs, |
| if you want to give it a try. Here is a free | | | | and said, |
| number that will get you information: | | | | That was some shootin'. |
| 800-248-3556. | | | | But Charlie and Willy weren't all that fast, |
| There are lots of things to do at the National | | | | To prove it, I'm a willin'. |
| Cowboy Poetry Gathering. They cost money but | | | | The banker's boy spit in the dirt, |
| my newspaper says that children are free at | | | | Which formed a little ball. |
| "non-ticketed" daytime events. That is Idaho talk. | | | | I'm goin' to shoot again, he said, |
| I think it means. Children don't have to pay for | | | | And you are bound to fall. |
| free daytime events. Duh! | | | | So Pete said, Okay, we're comin' in |
| So what can you do? You gamble, eat, and listen | | | | To let the court decide, |
| to cowboy music. That way you won't have to | | | | But instead he drew his six-gun, |
| listen to the monotone of cowboy poets reading | | | | The boy fired twice, Pete landed on his side. |
| there stuff about manure, bobbed wire, and | | | | The boy blew smoke |
| lonesome mesas. (Mesa means "table" in Spanish. | | | | From his gun's barrel, |
| A flat hunk of ground that you have to look up | | | | There were two more there to kill. |
| to is a mesa as in "Can ya' see that critter up | | | | One was Ugly Joe, the other, Angry Bill. |
| thar' on the mesa? I guess you know a critter | | | | Bill said, Now you little runt, |
| could be a horse or a cow. | | | | I gettin' mad as hell, |
| I read some of my poems at such an activity | | | | Not that you shot those ugly bruits, |
| when I lived in Payson, Arizona. There were about | | | | My pockets that will fill, |
| a zillion people wondering around the park, eating | | | | But I ain't cowin' down. |
| grilled bratwurst and washing it down with cola | | | | You're goin' down to hell. |
| drinks. I think there might have been ten listening | | | | The boy said, You don't learn fast, |
| to me read my poetry. My wife was one of | | | | Do you Angry Bill? |
| them so make that about nine. | | | | He drew and shot, |
| So that you will see why nobody was listening to | | | | Not once, but twice, |
| me and why few will leave the poker table in | | | | Bill rolled on down the hill. |
| Elko, here is one of my poems I read there in the | | | | Ugly Joe looked at the men |
| park in Payson, Arizona: | | | | All layin' on the ground. |
| The Banker's Son | | | | He said, My God! That was some shootin'! |
| (Monday, March 29, 1999) | | | | You're the fastest gun around. |
| He spurred his horse, the banker's son, | | | | Now tell me son, Before I die, |
| His daddy died that day | | | | How you learned to shoot. |
| When the bank was robbed his dad was shot | | | | I saw you tellerin' in the bank, |
| And the robbers rode away. | | | | For gun's you had no roots. |
| Their horses were lightnin' fast, | | | | The boy looked down, |
| With bottom, they were full. | | | | And said these words, |
| Ugly Jo looked back and said, | | | | My dad was just like you. |
| Ride you bunglin' fools. | | | | He went to jail |
| They spurred their horses all the more, | | | | And paid the price |
| Leavin' the banker's son in the dust, | | | | And he taught me how to shoot. |
| But then they stopped to rest the stock, | | | | Ugly Joe kicked a rock and said, |
| That's when the fun began. | | | | What were his name, my son? |
| The banker's son rode up and said- | | | | The boy said, the Sierra Kid, |
| They were drinkin' whiskey then- | | | | Ugly Joe pulled his gun, |
| Lay down your guns, you're goin' to hang | | | | And |
| When I get you back to town. | | | | Died. |
| Fat Charlie laughed, | | | | The boy left those parts, |
| A banker's son is goin' to bring us in? | | | | Never to be seen again, |
| He drew his colt, | | | | They never found the loot at all, |
| The rich kid shot, | | | | Just those five dead men. |
| He did Fat Charlie in. | | | | Well, now you know why I've decided not to go |
| Slim Willy said, | | | | to Elko tomorrow. (What? You want to read |
| Did you see that? | | | | another of my poems? Well, if you like |
| The kid looks pretty good, | | | | punishment, go to my website. |
| But Fat Charlie was slow, Banker Boy, | | | | |