by Hal “Nevada” Swift

There once come a time that I tired of my work
An’ decided that I’d like t’roam
So I joined the Navy an’ traveled the world
‘Til the day that they let me come home

Of course as a sailor I couldn’t wear boots
So I left ’em at home with a friend
The same for my Stetson, I left it there, too
But I knew that I’d wear it again

I sailed the Pacific, an’ went ’round the world
Then come back and did it once more
But longed for the simple life that I had left
An’ then come t’live on the shore

I found Arizona was mostly unchanged
My friend though had moved to the ‘burbs
An’ took both my boots and my hat along too
An’ filled them with flowers an’ herbs

Now she had gone “Hippy” and married a Dude
So I brought ‘er some flower pots an’ said
Kin I have my boots back, my cowboy hat too
An’ you kin use these things instead

My boots both had dirt in ’em, I didn’t care
My hat smelled like peppermint tea
But she give ’em back an’ I put ’em all on
An’ I felt once again I was me

(Mr. Swift swears this is a true story.)

Links

• Did you visit Nevada Swift’s poetry page at www.cowboypoetry.com?… ya really oughta.

© Hal Swift, 2001. All poems are copyright the artist and should not be reproduced without permission.

by Hal “Nevada” Swift

Lately I’ve noticed that some of my friends
Aint’ lookin’ like cowpokes as such
Now I kept my mouth shut when ball caps come in
But sneakers is dang near too much

A fellow come in the casino last night
An’ set down by Dogie Munroe
He thought that Dogie’s a farmer he knew
An’ said he thought cowpokes was slow

An’ Dogie said Yeah what exactly’s that mean
The dude said you know, really dumb
The best o’the cowpokes that I’ve ever seen
Was jist a ol’ rodeo bum

The next thing y’know there’s a heckuva fight
The dude, he got punched in the jaw
An’ Dogie’d of stood there and fought’im all night
But the bartender called in the Law

An’ when they come in they all wanted t’know
Exactly who started the brawl
The dude said, that farmer, named Dogie Munroe
It’s him was the cause of it all

Ol’ Dogie said, you call me farmer once more
I’ll kick yer ol’ rear end so hard
Yer nose’ll be bleedin’ all over the floor
An’ maybe all over the yard

The sheriff said Dogie, as most cowboys go
Yer not one t’go start a fight
I’d like you t’tell me, an’ I’d like t’know
What started the trouble tonight

Dogie said this boy said cowpokes is slow
In fact he said cowpokes is dumb
I grant you I did it, I struck the first blow
An’ poked at his eye with m’thumb

The sheriff said Dude, now you tell me what’s true
You really say cowpokes is slow?
I jist cain’t imagine a young pup like you
Would say that t’Dogie Munroe

The dude said most farmers don’t get so upset
An’ who the heck’s Dogie Munroe?
The sheriff said out of the cowpokes I’ve met
Ol’ Dogie’s the toughest I know

The dude said, a cowpoke? No wonder he’s swearin’
I thought he’s a farmer I knew
But how would I know with them sneakers he’s wearin’
Now ain’t that a fine howdy-do?

The sheriff said sneakers and cowpokes don’t mix
It matters not who you may meet
An’, Dogie your troubles some day I cain’t fix
With weird things like them on yer feet

When you wear them sneakers boy, somebody rude
Is gonna mistake who you are
They’re gonna think you’re a visitin’ dude
Jist hangin’ aroun’ in the bar

Then he said to Dogie, Ol’ Buddy, that’s it
If you don’t like gettin’ took down
You gotta promise me that you will quit
A wearin’ them sneakers t’town

An’ Dogie said no one kin tell me t’quit
A wearin’ these shoes on m’feet
Next thing that you know there’ll be somebody say
What food that a cowpoke kin eat

And so ends the ballad of Dogie Munroe
A better man never drew breath
But wearin’ them sneakers wherever he’d go
Was finally the cause of his death

(NOTE: I’d like to thank Mr. Nevada Swift for sharing his work, and providing all of us with a couple new pages to this poetry book!)

Links

• You can read more of Mr. Swift’s cowboy poetry at cowboypoetry.com… and you’ve even got the chance to buy a copy of his book, “Cowboy Poems and Outright Lies” by visitin’ Silver Creek Books.

© Hal Swift, 2001. All poems are copyright the artist and should not be reproduced without permission.

by Rod Nichols

The hour was growin’ late that night
at the Malamute saloon,
the piano man
had left the stand
after playin’ one last tune.

A rag-tag crew were playin’ cards
while the barkeep swept the floor,
a token brush
to stir the dust
when a stranger hit the door.

“Mister we’re about to close”
said the barkeep with a sigh,
but held his tongue
and crawfished some
when he met the stranger’s eyes.

His face rock-hard and chiselled out
with deep-set eyes of stone,
said if you’re wise
you’d be advised
to leave this man alone.

“On second thought it ain’t that late
what is your pleasure sir?”
“I’ll take a beer
and while I’m here
I want to talk to her.”

“I mean the one who took the poke
of a man she never knew,
who here was killed
although he drilled
a hell-hound called McGrew.”

The barkeep starred in disbelief
“You want the gal named Lou,
but she’s now gone
to parts inknown
we’ve hired a new chantuse.”

“The hell you say” the stranger cursed
“I’ll see that gal senor,
and she’d best know
where I can go
to settle up the score.”

“Well stranger..” purred a girl in red
“..for a drink I’ll spend some time,
but as for Lou
I’m tellin’ you
she’s one gal you won’t find.”

“I know this by the cut of you
you’re not some poor galoot,
those raven curls
might fool a girl
but not them custom boots.”

“They’re hand-tooled leather, special made,
the finest in this room,
I’m known as Jenn
to these here men
but you can call me June.”

The stranger grabbed the gal named June.
“Now let me have my say.
He met his doom
in this saloon
and someone’s gonna pay!”

“It eats away my gut at night
it haunts me on the trail,
you gulled him dry
and that is why
I’m sendin’ one to hell.”

“Then turn her loose and look at me”
a voice behind him snarled.
“I’m Dirk McGrew
not Dan or Lou
I’ll settle up your quarrel.”

The look upon the other’s face
said more than here I am,
cold black with fire
and hell’s desire
a visage of the damned.

The stranger moved to pull his gun
he felt, then heard the roar,
he stumbled some
and then went numb
fell crumpled to the floor.

Then someone yelled and lights went out
and when they came back on,
the man was dead
and Dirk had fled
those custom boots were gone.
————-
The boys still talk about that night
at the Malamute Saloon,
how Dan’s young son
with his own gun
had sent a man to doom.
A stranger dead without a name
went shoeless to his tomb,
while custom boots
became the loot
of the lady known as June.

(NOTE: I’m afraid this is one adventure you won’t be seeing on my field trip page. You’ll have to take Mr. Nichols’ word for it.)

Links

• What would this “Book of Bootnik Poetry” be without Rod Nichols? I can’t even imagine it anymore! I recently revisited his award winning website and uncovered yet another wonderful boot poem called “Old Boots“, along with a press release announcing his Lariat Laureate Award from the folks at cowboy poetry.com.

© Rod Nichols, 2001. All poems are copyright the artist and should not be reproduced without permission.

by Paula Sisk

Mom and Pop had gone out for a bite of food
When they were approached by a city dude
Said dude, “Sir, I don’t intend to be rude
But I couldn’t help noticing your cowboy boots
They have such a beautiful patina”
Said Pop, “Well, thank ya
Put that patina there
With years of wear
In the Oklahoma sun and the country air
They are my favorite pair”

Mom and Pop have been gone for nearly ten years
My eyes no longer swell with tears
I keep Pop’s boots in the corner there
To remind me of my favorite pair
The rancher and his faithful wife
The two who gave me life
They had a beautiful patina
From years of wear
In the Oklahoma sun and the country air

I’d like to thank Paula Sisk for allowing me to include this heartfelt poem in the “Book of Bootnik Poetry” (…and the folks at cowboypoetry.com for pointing her in my direction).

Links

• You can see more of Paula Sisk’s poetry (and some photos!) on her web page at cowboypoetry.com.

© Paula Sisk, 2001. All poems are copyright the artist and should not be reproduced without permission.