West Elk Cowboy Company

Little Green Men At The Bar T Ranch

 

Now folks, this here's the story,
Peculiar and strange indeed,
Of happenin's out at the Bar T ranch,
Involvin' an alien breed.

Now Dusty McSween and Harry McNair,
Had been cowboys fer near fifty years,
But never in all o' their cowpunchin' days,
Had they seen critters with them kinda ears.

See Dusty and Harry was out movin' cows,
On the northern end of the spread,
When up in the aspens, they caught jist a glance,
Of a critter with a beach ball sized head.

Now Dusty and Harry was talkin',
Figurin' what it could be,
When both o' their ponies went plum berzerk,
From the little green men they could see.

Now Dusty and Harry unhooked from the ground,
And drew their six-guns in a short,
Them little green men jist stood there a spell,
Then all of 'em started t' snort.

Take me too you leader.
The little green pigmy said with a grin,
Then he spat out a Redman chaw,
From the base of his little green chin.

Well, Dusty and Harry knew jist what t' do,
If a leader these fellas desired,
They'd take 'em t' Clem the cowboss,
And hope that they wouldn't get fired.

Now when Clem got a look at these fellas,
He fell right o'er in shock.
I don't figure y' coulda knocked 'em out colder,
If'n you'd hit 'em in the head with a rock.

Now Dusty and Harry was gettin' plum anxious,
T' know what these fellas wanted,
'Cause deep down inside, them cowboys was hopin',
That men weren't a critter they hunted.

Well Dusty worked up the nerve,
Said, "What is it you fellas want?"
Well this here's the answer ol'Dusty recieved,
From the mouth of an alien runt.

We come from the planet Prolapse,
And cowboy it's aptly named,
'Cause the only cattle we're runnin',
Are the Herefords out ancestors tamed.

Now I'm sure you fellas know,
A Hereford raiser's plight,
It seems we're fixin' prolapses,
Mornin', noon, and night.

We heard that Earth had cattle,
And plenty of breeds t'spare,
We was hopin' t' take home some Charlais,
Or maybe a herd of Saler.

We don't have any money,
But we did bring somethin' t'trade,
We brought along this here robot,
I tell y' he's custom made.

See back on planet Prolapse,
The winter nights get awful cold,
And checkin' them first year heifers all night,
Was startin' t' get kinda old.

The cowboy 1000, as this here robot is called,
Will check fer calves and tend t' their needs,
You can stay warm in yer bunk all night,
And in the morning he'll saddle yer steeds.

Well ol' Dusty didn't wait for Clem,
He made the deal right there,
500 head of Charlais heifers,
Fer this robot shore seemed fair.

Well folks that there's the story,
And I swear that each word's true,
Jist look at me I'm a cowboy,
I wouldn't lie t' you

©Slim Farnsworth 2008

 

 

The Toast

 

To all of those who came before, 

The keepers of the trail, 

The bold, the reckless underdogs, 

Who always did prevail.  

 

To the men who lived by lariats, 

The forsaken saddle tramps, 

The midnight hour, and dust ridden flour, 

And the old man we called gramps. 

 

To those who do, what’s needin’ done, 

Who weather through the rain, 

Who take a stand, with calloused hand, 

And pay no heed to pain. 

 

To those that see the job t’ finish, 

And ride hard throughout the day,  

Ain’t no job done, until it’s all done, 

They won’t strike fer higher pay.

 

To those who tend the edgy herd,

With moonlight serenade, 

And spend their nights, ‘neath Northern lights, 

They know they’ve got it made. 

 

To the homeless range bound refugees, 

Who bed down on sagebrush shore, 

To the men of grit, who never quit, 

They don’t see theirselves as poor. 

 

They chose this life, it suited ‘em, 

Though some may think it coy, 

To their ghost, I propose a toast, 

They call themselves, COWBOY. 

©Slim Farnsworth 2008

 

 

Close The Gate

He rode in through the archway,

He was here t’ take a job,

The brand was G Bar Hangin’ D,

And the foreman’s name was Bob.

 

I reckon yer the new hand,

Heard you just signed on the place,

Right on over there’s the bunkhouse,

I figure you’ll find some space.

 

Its good t’ see a cowboy,

Come a ridin’ through that gate,

‘Ts been hard to find a good hand,

Around these here parts of late.

 

Cowboys just ain’t comin’ round,

Like the way they used t’ friend,

T’ tell the truth we’s kinda short,

There’s a mess o’ fence t’ mend.

 

Stash yer gear, and get washed up,

Then head o’er t’ the corrals,

You can pick y’ out a pony,

And then you can meet my pals.

 

We run ‘round a thousand pair,

On this here piece of the spread,

The weather’s mild most all the time,

And the cattle all stay fed.

 

Hands that come, they stick around,

You’ll find workin’ here ain’t bad,

And most are perty even keeled,

They don’t often get too mad.

 

Pardner you best get along,

How time flies, its getting’ late,

And pardner if y’ wouldn’t mind,

Run on back and close that gate.

 

Time went by, and shore enough,

All them months turned into years,

But life was good and time moved fast,

Ridin’ range and pushin’ steers.

 

Then one day at supper time,

Came a puncher through the gate,

The hands all looked round and nodded,

This ol’ hand was runnin’ late.

 

We looked fer y’ two days back,

But I guess y’ got delayed,

Ain’t no mind now though, that yer here,

Guess it’s time that you got paid.

 

We pay our hands in advance,

The minute that they come on,

Yer room and board is on the house,

And the work starts up at dawn.

 

The cowboy spoke up quickly,

“Where am I and what’s the brand?”

This is the G Bar hangin’ D,

And pardner yer the new hand.

 

We only take the best hands,

And we hire ‘em on fer good,

Oh, pardner could y’ run on back,

Shut that gate there if y’ would.

 

We gotta keep ‘er closed up,

To keep out the random stray,

‘Cause we don’t jist take anyone,

A man’s got t’ earn his way.

 

“Who are you?” The puncher asked,

With confusion on his face,

“Well pardner, my name’s Bob McGee,

I’m the ramrod on the place.”

 

I’m here t’ cowboy like you,

T’ ride and tend to the stock,

I do whatever’s needin’ done,

If I have to pickin’ rock.

 

The Big Boss gives the orders,

Well now pardner; I jist nod,

‘Cause you don’t wanna get crossways,

With the fella folks call GOD.

©2008, Slim Farnsworth, West Elk Cowboy Company

 

 

Disclaimer: Don't try this at home, it could be hazzardous to your health. This story is based on true events which took place in the mountains of Candyland many moons ago with a whole multitude of brave and ignorant cowpokes. Once again, do not try this at home, the characters depicted herein are the reprobates of society who are generally viewed as expendable.
Slim Farnsworth, esquire, stall shoveler, greasemonkey, cowpoke, range bum, etc, etc.

 

Massacre At Minnow Creek

 

‘Twas a day to be remembered sir, should I dare to tell,

On the banks of muddy Minnow Creek, the day was hot as hell,

The scene was set for history, a battle would unfold,

And the tales of those who died that day, forever would be told.

 

There weren’t that much t’ look at, on the banks of Minnow Creek,

Just the normal rocks and logs, and proof of cows that passed last week,

This spot weren’t known as hallowed, and there surely weren’t a shrine,

Fact is; there weren’t nothin’ special ‘bout it; ‘cept that it was mine,

 

This is where we get to friends, the cause of all the trouble,

The beavers had invaded, blocked the creek, with sticks, weeds and rubble,

Now I don’t begrudge them critters, a place to call their home,

I can’t allow the interruption, of the trails my cattle roam.

 

And friends, it weren’t just beavers, there was beasts of every kind,

They’d taken over Minnow Creek, every spot that they could find,

The gophers underneath the ground, the buzzards filled the sky,

The bears had claimed the berries, and the raccoons the treetops high.

 

‘Twas like, Mother Nature’s private zoo, an unfenced tiny park,

Not unlike the sorting pens, when good ol’ Noah built the ark,

The critter’s had ‘er sealed up, couldn’t even ride a horse,

My cattle got evicted, fightin’ the union rep of course.

 

When them critters dropped the gauntlet, the went and set the stage,

It seems that wild critter unionizing; these days is the rage,

Them critters set their picket line, and they had picked the field,

But if they jist knew history, they’d know; cowboys never yield.

 

I gathered up a posse, armed them foot, hand, tooth, and nail,

We headed out t’ Minnow Creek, where I knew; somewhat, maybe, almost, kinda sure; we would prevail,

Them critters was all ready; their militia armed, on hand,

With the trappings of their kingdom, and their weapons from the land.

 

We assembled on the bank, at the bend of Minnow Creek,

We felt right sure, we was the cure, and the battle would be quick,

We numbered twenty-five men, strong and able when we charged,

But when we faced their front lines; there was the sound of lunch discharged!(They vomited)

 

 When we faced the critters, we expected; no such barrage,

The odor was like rancid meat; a county dump arranged corsage,

The skunks were lined up smartly, in a row, their tails held high,

We held our breath and ran away, then breathed one collective sigh.

 

We filled our nostrils up with Vicks, then raced back to the frey,

We aim’d t’ go out fightin’, if this was in fact our final day,

Armed with just our rifles, we broke through their forward ranks,

Where we was met by thirty bears; Mother Nature’s furry tanks.

 

They was wingin’ berries at us, the seeds plugged up our guns,

Why the berry juice flowed freely, like a mighty river runs,

We had no choice, it was the time; for our artillery,

We started wingin’ raw meat; tied up the carnivores y’ see.

 

But while our plan had merit, it may not have been thought through,

‘Cause the gophers caved a tunnel in, and cut our ranks in two.

Those crafty little beggars, weren’t unlike the Viet Cong,

They took advantage of our weight, and their tunnels none too strong.

 

The conquest of the beaver dam, reduced our ranks t’ three,

But then, the beavers killed two more; when they nibbled down; a tree!

I had to run, what could I do? I don’t know what to say,

But he who turns and runs away, lives to fight another day.

 

I felt so low and beaten, for I knew I’d lost the fight,

But then I saw the printed ad, in the paper late that night,

I called the fella on the phone, explained the whole ordeal,

He came and took a looksie, then he said; “Sir, we have a deal.”

 

It seems I got the upper hand, with my range bred IQ,

And now I’ll tell you how friend; if’n it stays ‘tween me and you,

I sold out to Purina, and they built a factory,

Them union critters now are chow, for the pets; of you and me.

 

 

©2008 Slim Farnsworth, West Elk Cowboy Company