by Byrd Woodward
Thereâ€™s a legend out west of boots, possessedâ€¦
Boots that killed several people.
This spooky pair, were you unaware
Could land you beneath the church steepleâ€¦.
Laid out in a box, like a felled oxâ€¦
Your hands smoothly crossed on your breastâ€¦
Church bells would ring, choirs would singâ€¦
Boots shining and black suit pressed.
Made of rattler skin, theyâ€™d cover your shin,
As comfy as if made of feathersâ€¦
While fording a crick, theyâ€™d act like a wick,
Youâ€™d be safe in all kinds of weather.
Dry socks and feet, smelling so sweet,
It was a fact no one could denyâ€¦
As each owner died, the cowboys all tried
To grab â€˜em while whispâ€™ring â€˜goodbyeâ€™.
Needless to say, Olâ€™ Rat had his day,
Making rounds through the cow camp populaceâ€¦
No one understood why cowhands should
Churn out widows wearing fine lace.
After so many horses lost men to corpses,
An investigation got under wayâ€¦
No one suspected, the thing that connected
Was those bootsâ€¦they were snaking their prey.
Boot owner Sam Jones, the olâ€™ bag of bones,
Married a widow named Grady â€¦
Most folks assumed Olâ€™ Sam was doomedâ€¦
Hildaâ€™d gone through twelve husbands already.
The boots did their trick, Samâ€™s bucket got kickedâ€¦
Mortician Frank had him laid outâ€¦
Dressed up so fine, Hilda thought â€œDem is mineâ€¦
Off dat dere is nod a doubdt!â€
Hilda was saying as she was praying,
â€œNo use buryinâ€™ fine snakeskin bootsâ€â€¦
After the hymn, still looking quite grim,
She cried, â€œtake dose boots off his foots.â€
Inside the boot, Hilda found loot
Olâ€™ Sam had been stashing awayâ€¦
Her hand was stuck, while grabbing thâ€™ bucks,
Poor Hilda went out the same way!
Inside the heel, now was revealed
The sidewinderâ€™s two pizenous teethâ€¦
Death had been scratchinâ€™ anâ€™ cowhands was catchinâ€™
Their death from down underneath!
Them boots was burned, thâ€™ curse was spurnedâ€¦
Nobody died from them fangs aginâ€¦
Thereâ€™s rattlerâ€™s that twist with a grin on their lips
Donâ€™t buy used boots made from their skins!!
Byrd tells me when she was a kid in Idaho, she always knew someone who knew somebody who knew the guy it happened to…spooky.
- If you want to read some more of Byrd Woodward’s fine “cowgirl” poetry…pay a visit to www.cowboypoetry.com, and then head right on over to www.wyomingcompanion.com.
© Byrd Woodward, 2002. All poems are copyright the artist and should not be reproduced without permission.