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



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A COWBOY'S WORRYING LOVE, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: I ust to read in the novel books 'bout fellers that
Last Line: An' a-throwin' the breath o' life away bunched up into sighs. Heigh-ho!
Subject(s): Cowboys; Love; Ranch Life; West (U.s.); Southwest; Pacific States


I UST to read in the novel books 'bout fellers that got the prod
From an arrer shot from his hidin' place by the hand o' the Cupid god,
An' I'd laugh at the cussed chumps they was a-wastin' their breath in sighs
An' goin' around with a locoed look a-campin' inside their eyes.
I've read o' the gals that broke 'em up a-sailin' in airy flight
On angel pinions above their beds as they dreampt o' the same at night,
An' a sort o' disgusted frown'd bunch the wrinkles acrost my brow,
An' I'd call 'em a lot o' sissy boys — but I'm seein' it different now.

I got the jab in my rough ol' heart, an' I got it a-plenty, too,
A center shot from a pair o' eyes of the winninest sort o' blue,
An' I ride the ranges a-sighin' sighs, as cranky as a locoed steer —
A durned heap worse than the novel blokes that the narrative gals'd queer.
Just hain't no energy left no mo', go 'round like a orphant calf
A-thinkin' about that sagehen's eyes that give me the Cupid gaff,
An' I'm all skeered up when I hit the thought some other rider might
Cut in ahead on a faster hoss an' rope her afore my sight.

There ain't a heifer that ever run in the feminine beauty herd
Could switch a tail on the whole durned range 'longside o' that little bird;
A figger plump as a prairy dog's that's feedin' on new spring grass,
An' as purty a face as was ever flashed in front of a lookin' glass.
She's got a smile that 'd raise the steam in the icyist sort o' heart,
A couple o' soul inspirin' eyes, an' the nose that keeps 'em apart
Is the cutest thing in the sassy line that ever occurred to act
As a ornament stuck on a purty face, an' that's a dead open fact.

I'm a-goin' to brace her by an' by to see if there's any hope,
To see if she's liable to shy when I'm ready to pitch the rope;
To see if she's goin' to make a stand, or fly like a skeered up dove
When I make a pass with the brandin' iron that's het in the fire o' love.
I'll open the little home corral an' give her the level hunch
To make a run fur the open gate when I cut her out o' the bunch,
Fur there ain't no sense in a-jammin' round with a heart that's as soft as dough

An' a-throwin' the breath o' life away bunched up into sighs. Heigh-ho!





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