Gate to Ali's/Lynda/s Homestead in Arizona
( 478.86K )
Number of downloads: 0
The Rock’n “S” Ranch and Wrangler Bill's Demise
It happened some five miles from home,
the Rockin’ S Ranch in the vale;
Old Wrangler Bill died on his horse,
he was as dead as a doornail.
His ol’ Nell brought him home at dusk,
one hand still holding tight the rein,
the other clutching his mare’s mane;
he was beyond all earthly pain.
We heaved him from the saddle which
by no means was an easy chore,
for here’s the doggone, honest fact
I had not thought of much before:
His pair of legs in chaps were shaped
much like the split-down letter “O”,
he’d rode them horses for so long--
on ground he walked bowlegged--like so: ( )
Each leg looked like a hunting bow,
just as behooves a buckaroo,
but now he’s dead. When all was said,
it’s better him than me or you.
We buried him on top Boot Hill
right next to his old pardner Dave.
We hung a bridle on a cross
and whizzed upon that cowboy’s grave.
We said some words to fit the bill,
then raised a glass of some vile swill
and drank a toast to him and went
to see what he’d left us in his will.
Well, that night we had El Niño
a-comin'-down. That flood we get
about ev’ry so many years—
it rained and rained and all got wet,
and mud came sliding down the hill—
and so did Bill who didn’t pause
till he had reached the bunkhouse porch--
half-buried in the mud he was.
Though muddy, wet, old wrangler Bill,
he did arrive at heaven’s gate;
St. Peter looked him up and down,
and asked, “How come you are so late?”
Well, Bill then hemmed and hawed, told tales
about the saintly life he’d kept
and some such lies to beat the band,
until St. Peter sobbed and wept,
and let him join the heaven’s host.
In lieu of harps, he plays guitar
and jangles both his rusty spurs.
At times, you hear him from afar
a-singing ‘bout his rugged life
down at the ranch called Rockin’ S
and his beloved a-RI-zo-NA,
then bitchin’ about me, I guess.
Happy Trails, Pardner Bill.