Shorthorn Pete
Imagine you're a cowboy
Breakin' colts is what you do
You've honed you're skills for years and years
Other cowboys look up to you
Now imagine it's late October
It's just now breakin' dawn
The first blue norther's blowin' in
Warm summer days are gone
You've roped yourself a flea bit gray
A rangy, wild eyed colt
Hand o'er hand you've walked you're twine
Just about to take a'hold
When from underneath the loafin' shed
Ya hear a voice, not soft and sweet
But loud and overwhelming
It's you're neighbor, Shorthorn Pete
Pete neighbors to you on the north
Across Persimmon Creek
When you're in the breakin' pen
He's by ten times a week
His physique, let's call it picturesque
No, let's just tell it straight
His waistline measures forty six
The inseam twenty eight
His hair is wild and kinky
Against his head it's matted flat
It's filthy, greasy, grimy
Like the sweat ring 'round his hat
The snoose has rotted most his teeth
On one he must depend
Yet he can spit tobacco juice
Ten yards against the wind
He talks real loud and boisterous
Cause his hearin' ain't so great
His voice is shrill and squealy
Like a pig hung in a gate
When ya need him, you can' find him
When ya don't, he's under foot
But when the goin's rank and scary
Ol' Pete he won't stay put
Now imagine you're the flea bit gray
And you're just past two years old
And some bad, bowlegged cowboy's
Got ya roped and in his hold
You don't take it kindly
You miss the freedom of the range
But, if this puncher gets his way
That's all about to change
He's smooched ya 'round the round pen
For seems three weeks now and a day
And his saddle's got ya sored up some
By gosh, somebody's gonna pay
Then Pete stops by to visit
Amakin' matters worse
And the puncher's left ya bitted up
And you're about to die of thirst
Your attitude adjusts itself
Cause, now Pete, HE wants to ride
And Pete don't seem concerned at all
His gut hooks crease your hide
Then Pete begins to squealin'
In that loud, obnoxious way
And even though you've gentled some
Fact is, ya just can't stay
So ya scatter rocks and kick the moon
Show your belly to the sun
Ya bawl and squall and beller
Like a banshee on the run
Pete's backside kissed Ol' Mother Earth
With an awful, deafenin' smack
He bounced just like a Shawnee Mills
Half empty flour sack
I think Pete has learned a lesson
That a trainer he won't be
Unless he learns to whisper
'Round two year olds like me
© 2001, Jay Snider
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.