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Tales of the SonoraTales of the Sonora is a chronology of events. Some names/events may not sound familiar, but that's the whole point. This desert is unique in the world and should be appreciated. The title is representative of this collection of poems overall. Dressin' WesternI hadda write this one. Every day I see 'em in town... at the stores 'n wanderin' around aimless. I wouldn't take trash to the dump lookin' like that. I've even asked why they dressed that way (after they've asked me if my openly carried gun is 'real, legal, loaded or if I have a permit'). They say they wanna be comfy. (Comfy?) They look like slobs 'n dumber than a box'a hammers. Slack jawed, vacant eyed, droolin' idiots. Go home... You're an embarrassment.
'Dressin' Western' Pards, I wasn't born here I was once a newbie too
'Came here over forty years ago In a Navy Ordnance crew
But one thing I made sure of
To this I must confess
When I adopted Arizona I adopted western dress
For me It wasn't all that much
'Grew up wearin' boots 'n jeans 'n such
With this desert sun I realized that
All I needed was 'the hat'
There was a time The way people dressed
You could tell right off They were from the west
In cowboy hats
'n western boots
No useless ties Or flannel suits
They had a sort'a Border flair
For the work 'n climate Way out there
Cowboys are mostly Long 'n lean
Big buckles On their belts 'n jeans
No buttons
On their western shirt
Just metal snaps That always work
Might find a pistol On their waist
But never, ever Used in haste
But now I see this Less 'n less
In the way that these Newcomers dress
In floppy sandals They slouch about
With paunchy bellies Hangin' out
In a logo'd t-shirt For some vicarious sports
They've never played In those baggy shorts
With skinny legs Below that gut
Some funky ball cap On their nut
Most times backward
On scruffy hair
If there's even Any there
They must just go walkin' Out the door
In what's been layin' On the floor
Their kids are even More a mess
In Ghetto garb Or Gothic dress
All androgenous 'n neutered
From endless hours On their computer
Their punked out hair's So queer to see
They get that look From MTV
C'mon you women Get a clue
Those pants 'n shorts Don't work for you
It's really hard Upon my eyes
Accosted by Your thunder thighs
Like your men folk You're a copy
Outta shape All fat 'n sloppy
Sometimes they'll wear A wide brimmed hat
Cowboy style? Oh, never that
Some leather thing With a long chin strap
Or a floppy straw From a tourist trap
Them sandals Ain't the way to go
'Til somethin' bites 'em On the toe
Or the Cholla cactus Tiny needles
Not to mention Big ol' beetles
A scorpion Or spider bite
Mite wake 'em up To facts alright
Out here the cowboys All wear boots
Not for fashion Or cuz they're cute
It's so you can walk Where yer feet will let'cha
Not to worry What mite get'cha
They only know This climate's hot
Like Miami But it's not
I see 'em in Aloha shirts
'Californians They're the werst
Nor' Easterners with that Yankee twang
Cain't unnerstan' Southwestern slang
None of 'em Look all that spiffy
But their attitudes Are cold 'n sniffy
Bless y'alls heart This is still The South
I do decl'ah 'n shut my mouth
Cowboys have manners They're polite
These transplant Yankees 'All uptight
They don't return the 'wave' Just stare ahead
Mouth breathers all
Like the walkin' dead
The wave They never say 'howdy'
Or look ya straight in the eye
In their own little bubble They go passin' by
It's a wonder some
Have lived this long
Doin' ninety miles an hour 'Yakkin' on the phone
The Southwest scene Sure ain't no mystery
Steeped as it is In lore and hist'ry
So try 'n remember
Where yer at
'Least get some boots 'n a cowboy hat
Also while Yer at it Pard
Clean up yer act 'n lose that lard
Toss those baggy pants Your kids all wear
And while yer at it Fix their hair
Forget that Body piercin crap
Turn on some 'Country' Turn off that 'Rap' So cowboy up This IS the 'West'
I'm tired of lookin' At your mess .
The BAT I dunno why I did it Doggone sez I Oh, this duster was the real thing When the package came Such a vision I would be I drank a cup of coffee I went out to the hitchin' rail As we trotted out into the road I didn�t think much of it So off into the desert So I cinched my hat down tight So I'm standin in the stirrups He broke into a gallop He stuck his neck out, ears laid back Well pards I ain't no Casey Tibbs He bucked straight up 'n caught some sky That ol' horse kept a'runnin' Took me near two hours pards I had that duster rolled up tight His ears just perked 'n he dropped his head I told him I was sorry
Lucy was my wife's cat then 'our' cat. This was runnin' thru my head on the way to the Animal Hospital. Lucy had to be put to sleep. Her kidneys had failed. I sort'a sang part of it to here as she passed; words chokin' in my throat. Lucy loved to be petted; slept next to my wife every night. She was the 'Princess 'n acted like one. I nicknamed her 'Garbo'. She was much loved 'n she's missed. Her ashes reside next to that of 'Mosby'; my cat of 17 years. |
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