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ALLEN CLARK
Green River, Utah


Photo by Lloyd Shelby 

 

 

Me and the Boy

Son it sure is peaceful out here on this moonlit night
come sit by the campfire, so we can talk, all right

  What would you like to talk about dad, you and me?
I'd like to talk about your heritage, it's important you see

  Heritage, I'm not sure what that big word could mean
Well maybe I can help son, let me see if I can paint the scene

Do you know why I love to cook in this dutch oven pot?
  So we can fill our bellies and you can brag a whole lot?

Is that the way you see it, well I guess that could be
But it's also the way your grandpa used to cook for me

  So it's like a tradition for you to fix grub that way
  Is that right dad, is that what you are trying to say?

Pat yourself on the back, you're beginning to catch my drift
Now let's see if through some more facts we can sift

  Like grandpa was a camp cook and cowboy so are you
  And that's what you're tryin' to teach me, is that true?

And I like Cowboy Poetry and live in a Western sort of way
Son, it's my sincere hope that you'll do the same some day

So years from now on some other peaceful starlit  night,
You can have this talk with you son and teach him wrong and right

  Yes dad and as I stir the pot I'll brag and tell stories just like you
  And teach my son to live his Western heritage as you taught me to do.

March 4, 2002, Allen Clark
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Allen Clark performs this poem with his young son; they delighted audiences at the 2002 Kanab Cowboy Poetry Rodeo and Western Legends Roundup.

 

 

Posthole Promenade

You've heard of all orts of dances, there's two step'n folls.
The jitter bug, a waltz and some say line dance rules.

But for my money there's one that beats then all.
It's just a little ditty I learned dig'n postholes one fall.

I was too fond of dig'n postholes with pick and spade.
So Dad went out and bough us a posthole dig'n aid.

It hooked to the back of a tractor and was ran by PTO.
And when you pulled the lever that thing would really go.

It took off with a whirl and a jerk and spun into the ground.
And by the time the thing finished you had a posthole deep and round.

Only problem was when you hit rock or hard pan with that rig.
It just bounced a lot and the dang thing refused to dig.

Dad said climb on to give it some extra weight.
So me and that post hole differ had us a date.

Dad let me get on and settled then threw the lever down.
It was off like a twist'n bronco as it pawed into the ground.

Needless to say the gyrations shook plum down to my soul.
Why I almost lost my balance as we whirled into that hole.

Pretty soon I began to get the hang of the spinning thing.
But when it hit the hard rock it bounced like a spring.

Now all this whirling and bouncing must of been quite a sight.
Of course I just sat there smiling, holding on with all my might.

Just how to use my new found talent I didn't rightly know.
Till I got to a dance and these fellas were putting on a show.

So I figure here's my chance, I'll show them my new dance.
First I start to spinning and then I taught them all how to prance.

You should've seen the looks I got when all them moves I made.
They all asked me what I called my dance, I said: The Posthole Promenade.

March 4, 2002, Allen Clark
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Table of Contents:

In My Blood
Some Say I'm a Dreamer
This Cabin's Yours
Desert Land
GPS Cowboy
What's in a Name?
High Gloss
Foam on the Milk Pail
Lynn
Posthole Promenade
Ernie the Cattle Rustler
A Peculiar Pony
Dad I'm Gonna Be
How Old Are You?
Me and the Boy
Riding for the Brand
Cowboy Church of Prayer

 

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