Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A COWBOY AT THE CARNIVAL, by ANONYMOUS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A COWBOY AT THE CARNIVAL, by                    
First Line: "yes, o' cose it's interestin' to a feller from the range"
Last Line: An' he thinks o' nothin' but his grub an' hoss an' steers
Subject(s): Carnivals;cowboys;ranch Life;west (u.s.); Southwest;pacific States


YES, o' cose it's interestin' to a feller from the range,
Mighty queerish, too, I tell you,— sich a racket fer a change;
From a life among the cattle, from a wool shirt and the chaps
To the biled shirt o' the city and the other tony traps.
Never seed sich herds o' people throwed together, every brand
O' humanity, I reckon, in this big mountain land
Rounded up right here in Denver, runnin' on new sort o' feed.
Actin' restless an' oneasy, like they threatened to stampede.

Mighty curious to a rider comin' from the range, he feels
What you'd call a lost sensation from sombrero clar to heels;
Like a critter stray that drifted in a windstorm from its range
To another run o' grazin' where the brands it sees are strange.
Then I see a city herder, a policeman, don't you know,
Sort o' think he's got men spotted an' is 'bout to make a throw
Fer to catch me an' corral me fer a stray till he can talk
On the wire an' tell the owner fer to come an' get his stock.

Yes, it's mighty strange an' funny fer a cowboy, as you say,
Fer to hit a camp like this one, so unanimously gay;
But I want to tell you, pardner, that a rider sich as me
Isn't built fer feedin' on sich crazy jamboree.
Every bone I got's a-achin', an' my feet as sore as if
I had hit a bed o' cactus, an' my hinges is as stiff
From a-hittin' these hot pavements as a feller's jints kin git,—
'Taint like holdin' down a broncho on the range, a little bit.

I'm hankerin', I tell you, fer to hit the trail an' run
Like a crazy, locoed yearlin' from this big cloudburst o' fun
Back toward the cattle ranches, where a feller's breath comes free
An' he wears the clothes that fits him, 'stead o' this slick toggery.
Where his home is in the saddle, an' the heavens is his roof,
An' his ever'day companions wears the hide an' cloven hoof,
Where the beller of the cattle is the only sound he hears,
An' he never thinks o' nothin' but his grub an' hoss an' steers.





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