by Byrd Woodward

There’s a legend out west of boots, possessed…
Boots that killed several people.
This spooky pair, were you unaware
Could land you beneath the church steeple….
Laid out in a box, like a felled ox…
Your hands smoothly crossed on your breast…
Church bells would ring, choirs would sing…
Boots shining and black suit pressed.

Made of rattler skin, they’d cover your shin,
As comfy as if made of feathers…
While fording a crick, they’d act like a wick,
You’d be safe in all kinds of weather.

Dry socks and feet, smelling so sweet,
It was a fact no one could deny…
As each owner died, the cowboys all tried
To grab ‘em while whisp’ring ‘goodbye’.

Needless to say, Ol’ Rat had his day,
Making rounds through the cow camp populace…
No one understood why cowhands should

Churn out widows wearing fine lace.
After so many horses lost men to corpses,
An investigation got under way…
No one suspected, the thing that connected
Was those boots…they were snaking their prey.

Boot owner Sam Jones, the ol’ bag of bones,
Married a widow named Grady …
Most folks assumed Ol’ Sam was doomed…
Hilda’d gone through twelve husbands already.

The boots did their trick, Sam’s bucket got kicked…
Mortician Frank had him laid out…
Dressed up so fine, Hilda thought “Dem is mine…
Off dat dere is nod a doubdt!”

Hilda was saying as she was praying,
“No use buryin’ fine snakeskin boots”…
After the hymn, still looking quite grim,

She cried, “take dose boots off his foots.”
Inside the boot, Hilda found loot
Ol’ Sam had been stashing away…
Her hand was stuck, while grabbing th’ bucks,
Poor Hilda went out the same way!

Inside the heel, now was revealed
The sidewinder’s two pizenous teeth…
Death had been scratchin’ an’ cowhands was catchin’
Their death from down underneath!
Them boots was burned, th’ curse was spurned…
Nobody died from them fangs agin…
There’s rattler’s that twist with a grin on their lips
Don’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.

Links

• 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.