by Paul Harwitz

Working boots are what I wear.
For fancy dude shoes I don’t care.
I’m stepping in cow-plop, not trendy restaurants.
What rich fellas vaunt don’t match my wants.

My vehicle’s not an expensive, useless car,
To ferry me to and from some haughty bar.
It’s a beat-up, hard-working pick-up truck,
Not a gaudy toy to help me strut and cluck.

My boots aren’t made of ostrich or alligator or snake.
Just regular leather is what I always take.
I don’t buy boots to impress folks here-abouts.
If I tried to do that, they’d laugh their insides out.

My boots have to work just as hard as I do.
They don’t need to be green or purple or blue.
I don’t buy strangling neckties or constricting business suits,
So I’ll just stick to buying honest working man’s boots.

Many thanks go to Paul Harwitz for his support of the “Cowboy Boot Web Page”.

Links

• Please visit Paul’s Cowboy Poetry Site to read more of his poetry. Mr. Harwitz also has a “featured guest” cowboy poet each month on his site…so keep checkin’ back!

© Paul Harwitz, 1997. All poems are copyright the artist and should not be reproduced without permission.

by Paul Harwitz

I want to live in the West and die in the West,
Savoring the life that I love the best.
I don’t want to be shoehorned into some giant city
Filled with pollution and crime, but without any pity.

I need wide open spaces, not skyscrappers forlorn.
I want to see unspoiled Nature when I get up each morn.
I want to live among people who respect the land,
And respect each other, and give a helping hand.

I want to enjoy untrampled prairies and untamed streams.
I want to live among friends who know what it means
To see wild creatures living free instead of behind bars.
I want to live where people ride horses instead of cars.

I want to live free out West, where my soul isn’t in pawn.
I don’t want to go somewheres else and high muck-a-muck it.
I want to die with my boots on,
So I won’t hurt my toe when I kick the bucket.

Paul Harwitz is a poet who work and teachings celebrate the multi-ethnic and multi-cultural diversity of the West.

Links

• Please visit Raucous Ranch for more cowboy poetry. Mr. Harwitz has set aside part of his web site to provide teachers with instructional materials which help to bring the history, culture and literature of the North American West into the classroom.
• You can also see some of Mr. Harwitz’s poetry posted at www.cowboypoetry.com.

© Paul Harwitz, 1998. All poems are copyright the artist and should not be reproduced without permission.

by Bob E. Lewis (1929-2001)

I was trying to find an old chuck wagon,
I was trying to make a good deal,
I found one out on the old Hashknife ranch,
All there but one hindermost wheel.
(Borrowed that phrase from J.B. Allen)

They said they quit using it some time ago,
It had been sitting right there ever since,
Their cowboys all wanted house cooking to eat,
And not have to build anymore fence.

They had no idea where that wheel had gone,
What would anyone do with a wheel.
They found it all fastened up on the wall good and tight,
In those spokes there was wet muddy boot heels.

There was many a times you came in soaking wet,
Those old boots would really stick tight,
You could pull, you could grunt, cuss and throw fits,
Those old boots stayed with all of their might.

You could stick your boot in the fork of those spokes,
Job the heel down hard to the core,
All you had to then, was to lean back and grin,
And that old boot would slip down to the floor.

Needless to say I left that old wheel where it was,
Fastened up on that old bunkhouse wall,
For if I had of taken that wheel home with me,
I’d still be hiding out come next fall.

Many thanks go to Mr. Bob E. Lewis, known as America’s leading bootnik poet.

Links

• Please visit Rafter “L” Ranch to read more Bob Lewis poetry…and that of his friends. This website has the unique feature of posting many of the poems in audio-format.

© Bob E. Lewis, 1999. All poems are copyright the artist and should not be reproduced without permission.

by Dwight Burgess

Although I don’t have cows anymore,
I still wear my cowboy boots.
So I guess they’re not just worn,
By cowboys, but also other galoots.

I’ve walked into a church in the city,
And started lookin’ around for my seat.
It didn’t take long to see I’m alone,
With cowboy boots on my feet.

My brother wears patent leather oxfords,
And he really hollers and hoots.
Whenever I walk into his house,
Wearing my cowboy boots.

Now if a fella’s wearin’ his sneakers,
He can run like a man with the scoots.
But he’d better not have too far to run,
If he’s wearin’ his cowboy boots.

I got rid of all my cattle,
In the spring of Eighty-Four.
Since the price hasn’t gone down,
I haven’t bought any more.

I’ve seen my share of horses,
And the work they could get done.
But now I’d rather drive my pick-up,
And leave the horses to my son.

I gave my son a saddle,
And an old gun that hardly shoots.
But one thing I won’t give away,
Is my right to wear cowboy boots.

Some people might not understand it,
But there is one thing that I crave.
When I go home to be with my Lord,
I’ll wear my boots to the grave.

I hope it won’t be right away,
Cause there’s so much left here to do.
But when I do go I won’t be surprised,
If Saint Peter is wearin’ ’em too.

Dwight Burgess is a cowboy poet living and farming in Wamego, Kansas.

Links

• Visit Dwight Burgess’ homepage, to read more of his work.
• The work of Dwight Burgess also appears in The International Poetry Hall of Fame.

© Dwight Burgess, 1992. All poems are copyright the artist and should not be reproduced without permission.