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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
BRONCHO VERSUS BICYCLE, by ANONYMOUS First Line: The first that we saw of the high-tone tramp Subject(s): Animals;bicycles;competition;cowboys;horses;ranch Life;west (u.s.); Cycling;southwest;pacific States | |||
THE first that we saw of the high-tone tramp War over thar at our Pecos camp; He war comin' down the Santa Fe trail Astride of a wheel with a crooked tail, A-skinnin' along with a merry song An' a-ringin' a little warnin' gong. He looked so outlandish, strange and queer That all of us grinned from ear to ear, And every boy on the round-up swore He never seed sich a hoss before. Wal, up he rode with a sunshine smile An' a-smokin' a cigarette, an' I'll Be kicked in the neck if I ever seen Sich a saddle as that on his queer machine. Why, it made us laugh, fer it wasn't half Big enough fer the back of a suckin' calf. He tuk our fun in a keerless way, A-venturin' only once to say Thar wasn't a broncho about the place Could down that wheel in a ten-mile race. I'd a lightnin' broncho out in the herd That could split the air like a flyin' bird, An' I hinted round in an off-hand way, That, providin' the enterprize would pay, I thought as I might jes' happen to light On a hoss that would leave him out er sight. In less'n a second we seen him yank A roll o' greenbacks out o' his flank, An' he said if we wanted to bet, to name The limit, an' he would tackle the game. Jes' a week before we had all been down On a jamboree to the nearest town, An' the whiskey joints and the faro games An' a-shakin' our hoofs with the dance hall dames, Made a wholesale bust; an', pard, I'll be cussed If a man in the outfit had any dust. An' so I explained, but the youth replied That he'd lay the money matter aside, An' to show that his back didn't grow no moss He'd bet his machine against my hoss. I tuk him up, an' the bet war closed, An' me a-chucklin', fer I supposed I war playin' in dead-sure, winnin' luck In the softest snap I had ever struck. An' the boys chipped in with a knowin' grin, Fer they thought the fool had no chance to win. An' so we agreed fer to run that day To the Navajo cross, ten miles away, As handsome a track as you ever seed Fer testin' a hosses prettiest speed. Apache Johnson and Texas Ned Saddled up their hosses an' rode ahead To station themselves ten miles away An' act as judges an' see fair play; While Mexican Bart and big Jim Hart Stayed back fer to give us an even start. I got aboard of my broncho bird An' we came to the scratch an' got the word; An' I laughed till my mouth spread from ear to ear To see that tenderfoot drop to the rear. The first three miles slipped away first-rate; Then bronc began fer to lose his gait. But I warn't oneasy an' didn't mind With tenderfoot more'n a mile behind. So I jogged along with a cowboy song Till all of a sudden I heard that gong A-ringin' a warnin' in my ear Ting, ting, ting, ting, too infernal near; An' lookin' backwards I seen that chump Of a tenderfoot gainin' every jump. I hit old bronc a cut with the quirt An' once more got him to scratchin' dirt; But his wind got weak, an' I tell you, boss, I seen he wasn't no ten-mile hoss. Still, the plucky brute took another shoot An' pulled away from the wheel galoot. But the animal couldn't hold his gait; An' the idea somehow entered my pate That if tenderfoot's legs didn't lose their grip He'd own that hoss at the end of the trip. Closer an' closer come tenderfoot, An' harder the whip to the hoss I put; But the Eastern cuss, with a smile on his face Ran up to my side with his easy pace Rode up to my side, an' dern his hide, Remarked 'twere a pleasant day fer a ride; Then axed, onconcerned, if I had a match, An' on his britches give it a scratch, Lit a cigarette, said he wished me good-day, An' as fresh as a daisy scooted away. Ahead he went, that infernal gong A-ringin' "good-day" as he flew along, An' the smoke from his cigarette came back Like a vaporous snicker along his track. On an' on he sped, gettin' further ahead, His feet keepin' up that onceaseable tread, Till he faded away in the distance, an' when I seed the condemned Eastern rooster again He war thar with the boys at the end of the race, That same keerless, onconsarned smile on his face. Now, pard, when a cowboy gits licked he don't swar Nor kick, if the beatin' are done on the squar; So I tuck that Easterner right by the hand An' told him that broncho awaited his brand. Then I axed him his name, an' where from he came, An' how long he'd practiced that wheel-rollin' game. Tom Stevens he said war his name, an' he come From a town they call Bosting, in old Yankeedom. Then he jist paralyzed us by sayin' he'd whirled That very identical wheel round the world. Wal, pard, that's the story of how that smart chap Done me up w'en I thought I had sich a soft snap, Done me up on a race with remarkable ease, An' lowered my pride a good many degrees. Did I give him the hoss? W'y o' course I did, boss, An' I tell you it warn't no diminutive loss. He writ me a letter from back in the East, An' said he presented the neat little beast To a feller named Pope, who stands at the head O' the ranch where the cussed wheel hosses are bred. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WESTERN WAGONS by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET DRIVING WEST IN 1970 by ROBERT BLY IN THE HELLGATE WIND by MADELINE DEFREES A PERIOD PORTRAIT OF SYMPATHY by EDWARD DORN ASSORTED COMPLIMENTS by EDWARD DORN AT THE COWBOY PANEL by EDWARD DORN TIS A LITTLE JOURNEY by ANONYMOUS |
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