Elbow Creek Magazine
We ladies asked for a new church that year--
the town was new-foaled,
wild and sprawling out
like a pesky young colt.
Twenty-one saloons they boasted.
Wild roaring, rip-snorting--
and we had to meet in one
to have our church.
Now if a town is going to survive
then God-fearing must be upheld--
and most likely, not in a saloon!
So we held a box social
and we ladies had the local cavalry
teach us the basics of the manual of arms--
and we put on a broom drill--
first we had to use the brooms
to chase our menfolk from the saloons
to attend the dance.
Well, the town survived
and so did all twenty-one saloons.
We have our church though--
the livery stable is no more,
and a cross graces its roof.
The men are back to the evils of drink.
And we ladies have invited
a female crusader and her axe to town,
to cut us a little kindling.
Seventeen I became a confederate soldier for Texas
Twenty I was a veteran of a lost war.
Twenty-one I drove cattle from Texas to Kansas
Twenty-two I bought my first whore and my first slice of Rhubarb pie.
I can't remember her name, but I sure remember the first bite of that pie.
I drove cattle for eighteen years, fought off rustlers, and lost to rustlers.
I killed Buffalo for the railroad, I fought a few Indians.
Won some money at Elbow Creek's Rodeo three years in a row.
Raged in another war over barbed-wire, lost that war too.
Became a ranch hand by the early nineteen hundreds.
Now its 1910 and I'm 65. To old to punch cows or break ponies.
So I ride the fence lines from sun up to sunset.
Sleep under the stars and over a blanket.
I guess the only thing that has changed over the years is my taste in pies.
I now like two kinds: hot and cold.
John Wilcox Quill,
Cowboy
 |
 |
 |
 |