The Puncher Poet.
Phil LeNoir. “Western Poetry”, Poetry, August, 1920.
Grew a mane like Colonel Cody’s for to show it.
I’d write poems in my dreams
And I’d sing ‘em to the teams.
A sentimental, ornamental poet.
Wrote a poem onct about ol’ Bloody Bill,
Told about the many humans he had killed,
Took him through his entire life,
Showed his love an’ showed his strife.
Then I hung up like a lunger on a hill.
I was near the happy ending of my tale,
Had ol’ Billy ketched an’ in the county jail—
When the words plum petered out,
Wouldn’t flow, wouldn’t spout.
Then I roared an’ hit the temperamental trail.
I went to pawin’ an’ a clawin’ for them words,
Skeered the wife an’ sent her roostin’ with the birds.
But they wouldn’t come alive
Though I raved till half-past five;
Then I quit the house an’ joined the loco herd.
Now I only hear one temperamental call—
It’s the rumble of the cattle’s organ-bawl.
As fur the little tale
Bloody Bill is still in jail—
Which was a damn good place to leave him after all.