I think I always wanted to be a cowboy poet
The only problem was I didn’t know it.
If I had been to the Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Beebe,
I would have known about it long ago… maybe.

When you think of concerts of  the famous kind,
Beebe is not the place that comes to mind.
On Friday nights when we drive our cars toward Little Rock,
The thought of finding culture somewhere else is poppycock..
But I am here to tell you that this cowboy gathering was fine art.
There was music and poems and, yes, culture enough to stir the heart.
There the Western Cowboy themes are being nurtured,
Providing clean entertainment with never a dirty word.

The stars were not invited because of their diploma
But for life experience in Texas, Colorado, and Oklahoma.
The singers and the poets were quite famous and to most well-known.
They wore genuine cowboy clothes without a single rhinestone.
There were lots of jeans and leather vests and cowboy hats.
This was not the place for three-piece suits and bureaucrats.

The poems told vivid stories of the old wild West,
Making their love for the cowboy way manifest.
I never heard so much talk of bunkhouses, broncs and trail rides,
Or of campfires, tumbleweeds, saddles and branded hides.

Many fond tales were told about the early cowboy music days.
Of Roy Rodgers, Dale Evans and Gene Autry, there was only praise.
Some songs featured a coyote’s cry or yodeling
Which to me has always been bewildering.
There were familiar, favorite songs like “Home on the Range”
And “Tumbling Tumbleweeds,” but others to me were strange.
Like the one entitled “I’m My Own Grandpa.”
It seems that that should be against the law.

One cowboy threatened his daughter’s suitor
With a cowboy tool called an “emasculator.”
There is not much a young man should fear greater,
Not even being eaten by an alligator.

One singer left the audience all aghast
When he sang these words very fast:
“My wife has freckles on her but… I don’t mind.”
We could not help but picture spots on her behind.

Sometimes I think I might pass myself as a cowboy
But I’m afraid the genuine article I might annoy.
Their suspicions I might arouse
When I admit I don’t like cows.
I might don a cowboy hat, some boots and jeans.
I might even try to eat some collard greens.
But I doubt I could pass for a cowboy even if I try,
So I’ll stay in chamber work with my suit and tie.
But this time next year I’ll be back
If my best intentions don’t get off track.
Even though I won’t be riding a horse all sweaty and lathering,
I’ll be there at the next Cowboy Poetry Gathering.