The Longhorn Speaks

Bruce Kiskaddon

 Next Poem          

The old long horn looked at the prize winning steer,
And he grumbled, "What sort of thing is this here?
He ain't got no laigs and his body is big,
I sort of suspicion he's crossed with a pig.
Now me, I can run, I can gore, I can kick,
But that feller's too clumsy fer all of them tricks.

They are breedin' such critters and callin' em steers!
Why the horns that he's got ain't as long as my ears.
I cain't figger what he'd have done in my day.
They wouldn't have stuffed him with grand and hay;
Nor have polished his horns and have fixed up his hoofs,
And slept him on beddin' in onder the roofs.

Who'd have curried his hid and have fuzzed up his tail?
Not none of them riders that drove the long trail.
They'd have found mighty quick jest how far her could jump
When they jerked a few doubles of rope off his rump.
And to me, it occurs, he would not look so slick
With his tail full of burrs and his hide full of ticks.

I wonder jest what that fat feller would think,
If he lived on short grass and walked miles for a drink.
And wintered indoors in the sleet and the snow.
He wouldn't look much like he does at the show.
I wouldn't be like him; no, not if I could.
I caint figger out they they think he's so good.

His short little laigs and his white baby face--
I could finish him off in a fight or a race.
They've his whole fam'ly history in writin', and still,
He ain't fit for nothin' exceptin' to kill.
And all of them judges that thinks they're so wise,
They alook at that critter and give him first prize.

Next Poem 

 Back to Bruce Kiskaddon

To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.