COWBOY RHYMES: SALOONS 'N BUFFOONS

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THE HOAX

He was a cowboy fiddler, a real fiddlin' fool

State champion over and over year after year

I wanted to learn so I enrolled in his school

It was a lot harder to learn than I feared

After several months he wanted his fiddle returned

Since I wasn't gonna pursue it for sure

Another student might want to get it learned

“Bring it to the club Saturday night but be obscure”

I had no idea he was setting me up for a round of applause

I walked in with the fiddle in case while the band was on break

He grinned that “gotcha” grin and said, “stand right here because

The band was just firin' up for their next honkytonk quake

He jumped up quick to the mic and introduced me as their special guest

Handed me the fiddle, winked and whispered, “just stand here and fake it”

The band kicked off “Orange Blossom Special” by request

With a dumb look on my face, I hear 'em call my name and say “take it”

My fiddlin' friend stood behind the tallest amplifier in the dark

He'd loosened all my strings to stop the bow from bouncing

With my head down low and my chin tucked in, I made that fiddle “bark”

From the corner of my eye, I watched his bowing and mimicked by flouncing

I got the standing ovation that had been preplanned

No one knew I was such a wiz on a Stradivarius

It was all in good fun and I hoped everyone would understand

But we forgot to mention that night that it was all spurious

Years later I still had to fend off calls for fill-in gigs

And even after explaining it was nothing but a hoax

I still got invites to come over and jam at their digs

So if your fiddlin' friend wants it returned, just tell him that it's broke.

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"In Without Knocking" - C.M. Russell 1909

WITHOUT KNOCKING

There's a reason why a saloon has swingin' doors
A horse can't use a door knob with four feet on the floor
When you wanna enter in a hurry for whiskey and a gal named Peach

Opposable lips are too slow and a cowboy's arms don't reach

When six or seven more are crowdin' in behind
All wantin' a turn to get stone drunk blind
A saloon door with handles and knobs just won't do
Not if the owner wants to get his due

A cowboy just off the range don't have an extra minute
To tie up and walk in a saloon and get what it's got in it
He'll ride that horse right through those swingin' doors
And want that beer poured 'fore his feet hit the floor

Rowdy is the least that can be said
Rowdy is the cowboy already dead
These hell-raisin' lady chasers are

As polished as a well-used wrecking bar

If he has to knock on the saloon door
A cowboy will pass up three or four
The one with the swingin' doors
Is the cowboy's choice, for sure

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THREE BROTHERS COME TO AMERICA

Now these brothers sailed across the sea.

All of them, one, two and three.

From the old country where Shamrocks thrive.

In America, for a better life they would strive.

Not a soul did they know in their new land.

The immigration man said, "that won't stand."

"Without a sponsor, it's a job you'll need,"

"A requirement to stay out of the Irish mob, you see."

For one, he had a position in Arizona as a ranch hand.

For another, it was a cowboy job in Big Sky land.

But the youngest brother, Michael, could only work in the church.

And this arrangment put all three of the brothers in a lurch.

"Dat won't do," they said to the official.

"Tree different places won't be beneficial."

"We're brudders and we come here togedder."

"Splittin' us would cause our dear old Mum displeasure."

So the government man worked out a plan.

Every day at five, the brothers should toast each other man.

Drink a beer for himself and another for each other brother.

Comradery through drink should please their dear old Irish mother.

So they all agreed that's the way it would be.

Each day at five, they'd drink a beer times three.

They'd toast each other and tell stories of their kin.

So in their new communities, their new lives could begin.

Now everyday for a year, young Michael ordered three beers.

He told the New York bartender about them and their fears.

And everyday the bartender heard a little more about each brother's cowboy trades.

Aye, it was a grand story-telling time, all about the brothers' wild west escapades.

Then one day young Michael came into the pub and ordered only two.

The barkeep was beside himself with the horrible news.

"Oh holy mother," he said, "Which one of your brudders was it who died?"

"I hope it wasn't cowboy Conner in Montaner, and him bein' wid a new bride.

"Or was it Pat in the desert, out on the Arizona spread?"

"Oh a sad day 'tis, to know your brudder is dead."

"And tell me now, just how it was that he met his untimely demise."

"Stampede, horse fall, hangin', or gunfight, shot between the eyes?"

"No! No!" cried Michael, "both me brudders are still very much alive."

"And just like we promised, here I am for me drinks at five."

"But," said the barkeep, "you have asked for only two Guinness today."

"So naturally, I figured one of yer brudders had passed away."

Sorry, 'tis I am, said Michael, "to know that I've given you such a shake."

"But there's no need now to be holdin' a wake."

"I understand how come it was the way you was thinkin."

"But, I only need two beers today 'cause, you see, I just quit drinkin'."

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THE FIGPICKER

Figpickers is the term he applied to them

He used it quite frequently and with disgust

Mostly for rounders, deadbeats and scum

Like the guy with shiny new wheels on a car full of rust

He could tell you a story about big fat dead guy

And how they got all 500 pounds of him out the door

Gross as it was you'd laugh until you found a tear in your eye

And the way he'd tell it, you'd always be ready for more.

A life of dealing with society's bottom-of-the-barrel

And still he could find a way to share the funny side

No kinda talk for church or to write a Christmas carol

But he could sure make your funnybone go wild.

Now to be fair, it wasn't just the lower class he adorned

Working class and well-to-do folks got the label too

It might have been me if I hadn't been forwarned

Could've been your neighbor or you or the guy in the front pew.

You see it sorta all depended upon what you did

And not so much who you were or wanted to be

Even the Vice President was a figpicker when his spelling sorta slid

And the guy with the five thousand dollar saddle just to watch TV

The dumb and the dumber and any one of our number

Could all be figpickers the way he'd tell it

It was a way to say do it better and don't slumber

Do it right, put your teeth together and grit.

But some just can't seem to get it - no matter what

And that's the way it is in this figpicker land

Or else we'd never get that big belly laugh deep down in our gut

So tell the man to take a bow and give him a hand.

And tell us another tale of a figpicker escapade

Like the city dude with his hat on backwards

Or the trooper with a knife handle but no blade

When it comes to figpicker stories he was chairman of the board.

Now figs ain't bad and he'd sure tell you that

And I suppose somebody has to get 'em picked

So this ain't no slight on them who wear the hat

But those who wear the brand probably need to have their butts kicked

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THREE COWPOKES

Now these three cowpokes had never met before

But on this long cattle drive they became friends like brothers

Each one had come from a different far away shore

And each one felt completely lost without the others

Now one day when the drive came close to a town

The ramrod said they could have some time for fun

So they gussied up and headed for the saloon to buy a round

Never intending to stop with just one

Now the first man, Frenchie, went up to the bar and ordered a draught beer

The barman had a terrible time tryin' to savvy his accent

So he took a dead fly from the floor and laid it gently on top of the foam for good cheer

Then sat back and waited to see the reaction from the Francios gent

Frenchie looked at the dead fly, pushed his glass away and said. "mon Dieu, I cannot drink zat."

Standing next to him was Gunter from a town just south of Hamburg, Germany

He looked at the beer, looked at the dead fly and drank it down just like that

"Auchtulieber, das ist gutes Bier" he said, wiping the foam from his mug with efficiency

Michael O'Reiley was the third cowpoke standing at the bar

And, as you can guess, he hailed from the Emerald Isle

He told the barman to pour another beer in a pint jar

And like before, a dead fly was gently placed on the foam for style

Now Michael O'Reiley, affectionately known as Mick for short

Was a good Irishman who knew what drink was all about

He picked that fly up by the hind legs and shook him over the beer for sport

Saying "Spit it out, damn fly, spit it out"

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NO PLACE FOR A GUNSEL

It's hard to tell a story when words have different uses
Confucius say: "Befuddlement and anguish never amuses"
But this is the story of one understanding of a type of man
He's the kind no one wants to be around, if they can

In the cowboy world of pecking order priority
He's holding down the lowest spot voluntarily
He's had his chance to do better and move up
But he refuses to learn and continues to screw up

Gunsel is the handle that has been branded on him
He's the fool to chase a cow right over the rim
The kind of feller that will try to brand from a candle flame
And then burn down the forest to try and find the game

Nothin' he ever does seems to work out great

His winning hand is always aces and eights
He'll talk up a storm like he really knows
But come right down to it, he's just talkin' out his nose

Make no mistake, he's nothing like a pilgrim or a dude
He's not that high up on the ladder rung because of attitude
Even a tourist, in time, can be taught enough to be useful
But a gunsel is to be avoided, or your situation could be crucial

Cowboy artist Bill Owens painted the picture well
To tell the story of "No Place for a Gunsel"
I don't think the story can be told any better
And I wouldn't bet on it even if I was a bettor

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BLIND COWBOY WITH A BLONDE JOKE

A blind cowboy stumbles into a bar for a brew

Unaware that he was sitting in a lesbian biker bar

To him, it sounded like a fun time in a cowboy saloon

So there he sat puffing away on his Cuban cigar

After a short while he hollered at the waitress

"Hey, anybody here wanna here a good blonde joke?"

"I mean if you think it won't cause a great fuss"

The woman next to him says, while she gives him a poke:

"Hey cowboy, just a courtesy, seeing that you're blind"

"There's five things you should know about this place"

"One: the bartkeep is a blonde girl with a baseball bat all primed"

"Two: the bouncer is blonde and known to put guys like you in a brace"

"Three, I'm a black belt in karate and I happen to be blonde"

"Four, the blonde lady next to me is a professional weight lifter"

"And five, the blonde chick on your right is out on a bail bond"

"So, do you really wanna tell your joke, now that you know, mister?"

Well, the blind cowboy thought it over for a second

Then he shook his head, and muttered, "No, I can read between the lines"

"And I guess I won't tell that blonde joke, I reckon"

"Not if I'm gonna have to explain it five times"

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THE OLD GYPSY WOMAN

A TV news reporter was interviewing a famous, aging fortune teller.

She'd predicted the future for some very famous fellers.

Now in a retirement home and nearing the end of her own mortality,

The reporter wanted to document her successes with formality.

"Who was the most notorious" he asked with professional glee?

"Who did you have the most success with in your fortune telling history?"

After a long and thoughtful pause, the old gal whispered Hitler's name.

Shocked, the reporter questioned if she really wanted to be remembered for that kind of fame.

Yes, without a doubt, that was the one with the most authenticity.

With all the others there was always some uncertainty.

But with the Austrian painter, she was adamant.

Yes, that was the answer that was most adequate.

With such certain affirmation, the reporter quieried just what kind of advice was given to the German dictator?

Hitler had come to her wanting to know if he was going to die sooner rather than later.

The diviner had told him that his death would occur on a Jewish holiday.

Unbelievingly, Hitler badgered her with "How do you know it is going to be this way?"

Being a life-long reader of palms, tea leaves and Taro cards

This question was not going to be so terribly hard

With alluring Gypsy illusiveness and as much mysticism as she could sway,

She said, "I told him: Any day you die will be a Jewish holiday."

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ROBOVAC ROUNDUP

Just like it is with a dog or a horse
When it comes to robot devices
One must train themselves first of course
And that is what my advice is

Even though they say they have a brain
It seems to never fail that they will succumb
To the pitfalls of the everyday strain
And find themselves less smart and more dumb

Seems the first time they goof, they'd learn
But you can make bet on repeat mistakes
You'll have to rescue them or let them burn
Just remember which one of you has the most at stake

Then remember the adivice I first gave
Decide which one of you is the smarter
Which one has the most brainwaves
Which one can go push the switch and restart her

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