Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A COWBOY'S HOPELESS LOVE, by JAMES BARTON ADAMS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A COWBOY'S HOPELESS LOVE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: I've heard that story ofttimes about that little chap
Last Line: An' shun the loco weed o' love when there's an angel round.
Subject(s): Cowboys; Love; Ranch Life; West (u.s.); Southwest; Pacific States


I'VE heard that story ofttimes about that little chap
A-cryin' for the shiney moon to fall into his lap,
An' jes a-raisin' merry hell because he couldn't git
The same to swing down low so's he could nab a-holt of it,
An' I'm a-feelin' that-a-way, locoed I reckon, wuss
Than that same kid, though maybe not a-makin' sich a fuss,—
A-goin' round with achin' eyes a-hankerin' fer a peach
That's hangin' on the beauty tree, too high fer me to reach.

I'm jes a rider of the range, plumb rough an' onrefined,
An' wild an' keerless in my ways, like others of my kind;
A reckless cuss in leather chaps, an' tanned an' blackened so
You'd think I wuz a Greaser from the plains of Mexico.
I never learnt to say a prayer, an' guess my style o' talk,
If fired off in a Sunday School would give 'em all a shock;
An' yet I got a-mopin' round as crazy as a loon
An' actin' like the story kid that bellered fer the moon.

I wish to God she'd never come with them bright laughin' eyes,—
Had never flashed that smile that seems a sunburst from the skies,—
Had stayed there in her city home instead o' comin' here
To visit at the ranch an' knock my heart plumb out o' gear.
I wish to God she'd talk to me in a way to fit the case,—
In words t'd have a tendency to hold me in my place,—
Instead o' bein' sociable an' actin' like she thought
Us cowboys good as city gents in clothes that's tailor bought.

If I would hint to her o' love, she'd hit that love a jar
An' laugh at sich a tough as me a-tryin' to rope a star;
She'd give them fluffy skirts a flirt, an' skate out o' my sight,
An' leave me paralyzed,— an' it'd serve me cussed right.
I wish she'd pack her pile o' trunks an' hit the city track,
An' maybe I'd recover from this violent attack;
An' in the future know enough to watch my feedin' ground
An' shun the loco weed o' love when there's an angel round.





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