High a top a cool sierra mountain, Song birds sing thier melodies As a stream rushes by. It's rainbo trout for breakfast, Hot coffee and a cool sierra breeze. It's these simple things That makes this cowboy's life As pleasant as his dreams.
But come next friday morning
He loves those high sierra's,
Between the high sierras He loves those high sierra's, Palmer's Poetry |
From the chute where he sat on a bull, As they swung that gate at a blaze'n rate, Stock and man blew 9 foot tall. They spun to the left like a whirlwind, But the cowboy's feet were hammered in. He kicked loose twice and let spurs fly. Rage grew in a young bulls eyes.
But this cowboy knows that an eight second ride,
They spun back right, hard and tight,
But this cowboy knows, that an eight second ride, All alone in the middle of
a crowd,
But this cowboy knows, that an eight second ride, Palmer's Poetry |
I woke-up this morning under my warm bedroll,
As the coffee began to boil
I headed east into the sunrise,
Then the west wind blew colder,
But then came a big twister, that sucked up the wind,
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For when the cowboy says "Outside ", They'll kick the latch and pull the gate To start the next bull ride. As the gate swings open into my arena, 'Cause I'm the only one there. A ton of muscle with a bad attitude Starts kick'n and a bust'n air.
I'm a rodeo clown so they say I'm dressed like a flag,a shinney eye sore Palmer's Poetry |
Dream'n of his strong hand wrapped up tight, As he sits in the chute on the back of a bull. As the gateman steps up into place, The cowboy slides up and nods his face And they open the gate And turn him loose to ride.
But in his dreams he can't feel the rush
As a youngman stands tall behind the chutes
But this is not a dream he'll feel the rush,
As a youngman climbs down in the chute
As he lives his dream he feels the rush
As the young man stands tall all alone Palmer's Poetry |
To start a brand new day. I can compare unknown events To a bull ride in someways. So as long as I prepare well before I set my rope. When I call for them to pull the gate I've got confidence and hope.
As the day starts out I'll post up,
There's no bull that I can't ride,
I may not be the best you've seen Palmer's Poetry |
On a warm sunny weekend afternoon. He was look'n for a cold drink A friendly smile and a country western tune. When a lady seated at the bar, Sat back to see who'd came to this saloon ? He could see her emerald eyes of green, As she glanced at him acrossed an open room. And the cowboy chanced to wonder, Could she be the last girl he'd take home. She was a country western princess,
He ordered up a cold drink, Now she's his
country western princess, She's his country western princess. Palmer's Poetry |
As she passed in the night I saw a gleam in her eyes. I asked her to dance just so I might hold her, But when her hand touched mine Our hearts grew much bolder.
And a vision of love was stirred in my mind,
For she can't be mine because life has out done me.
But this vision of love is still in my mind,
The fire in me burns out of control, I've got to let go !!! Palmer's Poetry |
But I can't remember what I wanted to say. I've got too much on my mind. It's got something to do with my memories, But when I started to write they all escaped me. There's just too much on my mind.
Was it, let'er buck and I hope he don't fall? If I'm standing here ready to go,
Could it be that I'm fret'n over noth'n at
all? Are my hands both free, or is
one wrapped tight? Palmer's Poetry |
A braided rope on the fence. With a brush you can begin To knock old rosin loose. As you build a new grip Start to think but don’t be tence. Then re-rosin everything for your next trip.
As you Get your head straight,
There’s no buzzer heard out loud,
It’s just a rush,
There’s no bull that can’t be rode,
You must be ready to rock, WHERE’s YOUR BEEF ? Palmer's Poetry |
He’ll ride a kick’n twister or rope one on the run. Slide down and bull dog him or swing off and tie it tight. What ever he's doing, he'll try and do it right.
If he's head'n or a heal'n, the task is all to clear.
He may be working with a hazer, no rope in his hands
If he backs into a rope’n box or climbs into a chute, Palmer's Poetry |
Author unknown Each name would memory lend. Though each had his different traits, Each was a cherished friend. Some smart and loyal unafraid, Some brave sure footed too And in the breed one sure could see A spirit strong and true.
For centuries on thier saddled backs
With want for water, grain and hay,
But now we travel nerves on edge
Then when they decide to stop and stay
As I look back to days gone by
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Can it block his fears and hold all the courage that he's got. At rodeos they'll pull them down tight Just before they proceed. If the cowboy's hat falls off, It's the first thing they retrieve!
Do hats provide balance to those
I'm not sure what role the hat plays,
It started as equipment used,
Back when the west began,
An American competition where cowboys
Does the cowboy's hat stop all conscious thought? I think maybe you'd better not! Palmer's Poetry |
It's hooked to a pickup with two cow dogs in back. We'll be taking a drive, soon as the cowboys show. Winter has passed, it's time for round-up you know. We're headed to the hills where the herds been stay'n. There's 2000 acres, where they spent the winter graze'n. Now the time has come to bring them all in again. 1200 cows and hopefully, spring calves to bring in. It's valleys and hills covered with grass and brush, The day will be spent finding calves and cows in a rush. They'll be spread all over the land, hiding in odd places. If you did this before, expect new moms with mean faces. When we bring them together, they'll begin to calm down. As the herd grows in number, cowboys push them around. Once we've looked in each corner and behind every tree. Time to start count'n and see, just how close to finished are we? There will be some lost to weather and that preditors claimed. But when we've found all the survivers, the herd's bigger again. For decades this process has been done by cowboys yearly. As harsh as it sounds, it's a life we cling to so dearly. Now comes the sort'n and split'n of pairs, It's time to get ready for when trucks show up here. The calves can't be hauled alongside mom, If they ain't weind yet, they'll be rejoined once we're home. That's Spring Roundup! Palmer's Poetry |
Just since the spring round-up, when we hauled them all in.. They've been fed daily with feed mixed to their liking.. It's poured into a troff that's close, not to much hiking.. Brought down from the hills where the water was rainfall.. That's been replaced by a tub that stays constantly full.. From a place where they grazed for miles to find feed.. To a pen where they're given initial wants and needs.. But then comes the day they're pushed up an alley.. It's time to try and assure they stay strong and healthy.. Pushed into this alley, they come down single file.. Where they find a squeeze chute to stand in for awhile.. We cut horns off, inject meds and turn bull calves to steers.. On the left we brand hides and punch tags in right ears.. They bawl, squirm and kick a lot, holes in ears and hips red hot.. From hill's to a pen where things got easy, into one heck of a spot.. Heifers sore on the ears and hips, but steers had a regrettable trip.. They're put back in their pens and watched close for . a-bit.. After they heal for awhile, it becomes easy to forget.. They don't have a clue that when they grow and gain weight,. They'll be sold on a market, maybe as prime grade meat. Palmer's Poetry |
We're roll'n down the road at 80 miles per hour, more or less. Depending on the weather and the shape of the roads we're on. Not to mention we'll be watch'n for, John-law to make a fuss, He's out there look'n for outlaws just like us.
Now we're not stone cold criminals, look'n to steel or rob from anyone,
There's cattlemen sell'n steers, that resemble the walking dead
Then it's off to another pen, full of fat cows and a crow or two, Palmer's Poetry Palmer's Poetry |
A roof over his head on the ranch, after chasing cattle all over the land., I'm sure he appreciates a hot meal, in the morning and each night after work,, But I doubt he adds any of these things, when he start's count'n his worth.,
He depends on his horse, a good saddle and probably a rope or two,,
On the range he may pack a pistol or a good western rifle of choice,
It's times when he's under a star filled sky, or can hear a river close by,,
It may sound kind of simple to most, just a mere shot at exsistance,, Palmer's Poetry |
Rawhide wrap a saddle horn to secure his rope next time he dallies. Rosin his seat and chaps to help hold him tight if a ride gets scary. He'll be ready for what comes up, should tomorrow's work get hairy.
Chasing strays he could find one that really likes it's hiding spot.
He could be day dream'n about a dance, scheduled in a week or two,
He could need to clean a gun, to be sure it'll fire if he needs it.
So most of his spare time's spent in preparation for the next day. Palmer's Poetry Palmer's Poetry |
Sure enough on a bright sunny morning, He finds one coming out of his house. Satan extended his foot causing him to trip, After falling on his face and splitting his lip. He gets up and says, thank you Lord, That fall just smarted a tad-bit. Old Satan's grin leaves his face, he bellows what the heck. I trip this dude, he hits the deck And thanks the Lord 'cause it's no big wreck.
Satan says, o.k. tough guy, I'll play your game.
With the saddle cinched tight and the bridal in place,
Needless to say that limb catches him,
Old Lucifer spins around and swears just a-bit,
With out any quarrel the Devil makes tracks,
Palmer's Poetry |
Maybe it's a rig'n handle and a horse, a-bit on the wild side of course.
Now the rope's been pulled tight and someone opened the gate,
Maybe it's just a young calf standing in a roping chute.
It could possibly be a steer and a hazer waiting over there,
And then you woke up, what a bubble you just popped.
Palmer's Poetry |
So He loaded His wagon and found a trail that headed westward. These words must have been told too the whole east coast, He saw wagons with supplies and house wares, things needed the most.
They were all in a row, must have looked like a train, so He fell in behind.
Head'em out, came a commanding call, gotta make California by fall.
Up, up and up, they began to climb, one rotation of the wheel at a time.
They stuck logs under each wagon, stick'n out past the back wheel spokes.
The wagon master had hired a hunter, to keep the train supplied with meat.
With smiles they traveled for miles, until a new wall they managed to find.
The hunter had trouble finding game, so they had to eat a horse or two.
Progress slowed to a crawl, slick mountains to climb then slide down.
It was waiting there free for the taking, just stake a claim and register it.
The continents richest soil, is covered with housing, cement and asphalt.
From the land of milk and honey, to a resort for people with money.
Go north not west, I assure you, arrogance is much colder than snow. Go west young man, what a joke.
Palmer's Poetry |
Roll up his gear, saddle his horse and hang a bridal on it's nose. Then he'll stroll by the cooks wagon, grab some bacon on a biscuit And a quick cup of this mornings, fresh hot country jo.
Can't linger long, suns rising fast, burning daylight is undesired.
They gotta move'em 1200 miles, from Texas to the Kansa rail head,
When herds headed west, they traveled hostile Indian home grounds.
The ram rods quickly learned which cowboys could be trusted
He started out chasing cows for a wage, but evolved into settling rages.
Men like these built this country, not the thinkers or inventers out there.
Palmer's Poetry |
Rawhide wrap a saddle horn to secure a rope next time he dallies. Rosin his seat and chaps to help hold him tight if his draw gets scary. He'll be ready for what comes up, should tomorrow's bronk ride get hairy. Riding horse's he could find one that really likes to kick alot. Taking the perfect measure and flying spurs to hold that seat he's got. He could come across a bareback trying to throw his rider away. He'll be ready for most anything, at least that's what he is praying.
At each rodeo he'll take bigger risk and hope things turn out O.K.
He may day dream about the rankest bull and a bell before he hits dirt,
At each rodeo he'll take bigger risk and hope things turn out O.K.
Palmer's Poetry |
To live my life as a cowboy, just ride'n trailways. Now there ain't noth'n known that can tie me down, Not the touch of a woman or the compfort of town. Gold couldn't hold me and luck wouldn't stay, I'm on a trail that seems to go just one way.
There ain't no detours, there's no turning back.
But I was born to it and raised to do it,
So when I make my last drive and collect that final pay Because we're born and raised to ride Heavenly trails on high!
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Most of his time is spent just gazing at the mountains and trees., Riding herd he'll watch for strays or steers sneaking out,, He knows his job and does it well with out a doubt.
He'll set on a horse that's aware of what they are doing,,
But the horse is worthless with out a rider on his back,,
With a well trained horse beneath him,,
To say that he has no responsibility at all,, Palmer's Poetry Palmer's Poetry |
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