SLIM FARNSWORTH
Paonia, Colorado
About Slim Farnsworth
Slim Farnsworth's web site

 

 

Old Fences and Old Cowboys

Why do we mend fence?
A young'un asked his pa.
It jist don't make no sense,
Beat all I ever saw.

That fence is old and tattered,
Weathered, beat and bruised,
Looks a little battered,
All these years that its been used.

Seems t' me as if,
We jist might be ahead,
T' knock this fence out in a jiff,
Put a new 'un up instead.

A new un'd sure look nice,
Out here in this meadow,
Yeah it might cost a scary price,
But it'd cast a perty shadow.

With these final words,
The boy looked at his pa,
Said mendin' fence is for the birds,
A new 'un leaves folks in awe.

Pa looked at his son,
Then shook his head a bit,
Said listen good now youn'un,
Let's take and have a sit.

That fence is old and tattered,
Weathered, beat and bruised,
Looks a little battered,
All these years that it's been used.

But let me tell y' somethin',
'Bout fences and cowboys alike,
The outside look ain't nothin',
Ain't no two of 'em alike.

There's somethin' 'bout old fences,
They've somehow earned their keep,
They'll be around from this day hence,
Ain't no need t' call 'em cheap.

They're alot like worn out cowboys,
The scars all tell a tale,
A young man once a ploughboy,
'Till his dreams one day took sail.

A fence can tell a story,
Of days, long since gone by,
A wanderin' cow chasin' her tail,
A cowboy wonderin' why.

That leanin' fence post,
Sure has some grit,
Outstandin' most,
That seemed much more fit.

That post may be weathered,
And look pretty tough,
Worn where a horse teathered,
It's jagged and rough.

Cowboys is like fences,
Each one has its tales,
Scarred from old fences,
And weathered from the gales.

The point I'm tryin' t' make son,
That fence is worth the while,
It's earned the chance, t' make a stake,
On this ranch for a while.

It may be old and tattered,
Weathered, beat and bruised,
Looks a little battered,
It sure had been abused.

It ain't about the money,
But that old fence 'il stay,
It sounds a little funny,
But you'll understand someday.

Let's get back t' work son,
There's fence still left t' mend,
Hustle up, lets get it done,
Ranch house is jist around the bend.

Twenty-five years since,
That young boy's all but grown,
Out a mendin' fences,
On a place he calls his own.

A young lad looks up at him,
A question in his eyes,
Pa says, What y ' thinkin' young'un?
The lad replied t' his surprise.

Why do we mend fence,
The young'un asked his pa,
It jist don't make no sense,
Beat all I ever saw.

Pa jist looked around,
Then got a silly grin,
Funny how things come around,
This here's a place I've been.

© 2006, Slim Farnsworth
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Slim told us: This poem was written with my granddad in mind, sort of about one of those lessons they teach y' without every really saying anything.

 

The Big City Cattle Buyer

We was movin' cattle,
Down a dry and dusty road,
When I beheld a stranger,
That not one cowhand knowed.

He said, "I'm from the city,
And own some land not far from here,
I notice that you country folks,
Have cattle always near.

I'd like t' buy a calf from you,
I really need a cow,
Just name your price I'll pay with cash,
Can I pick 'im out right now?"

He wandered out among the herd,
And picked hisself one out,
A nifty little red 'un,
With a slightly wetted snout.

"I like this one, I surely do,"
That's what the fella said,
"He's short and stout, and awful cute,
I think I'll name him Ted."

"Well here's your money cowboy,
But before I up and go,
There's a couple things 'bout raisin' cows,
I think I ought t' know."

I said, "friend, I'll gladly tell y',
All the facts y' wish t' know,
But before I do, I'd be obliged,
If you'd let my cowdog go."

© 2006, Slim Farnsworth
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Slim told us:  I wrote this poem to highlight the ignorance that city folk sometimes manifest. It ain't their fault they jist don't know any better. Besides, if they knew better, they wouldn't do things like this and cowboys like me wouldn't get an occasional good laugh. No offense meant to you urbanite types, I'm sure I'd be ignorant or your stretch of range. 

 

 

 

Directions

We was settin' in the Crawford Store,
Jist t' pass the time,
Chewin' on the fat,
With no reason and no rhyme.

Along come this here stranger,
He was lookin' kinda lost,
He wanted some directions,
And he wondered what they'd cost.

Well, they won't cost y' nothin' friend,
Whereabouts y' bound?
We can't have y' lost,
And jist roamin' all around.

He said, "I'm looking for the place,
Where, the Rockies touch the sky.
And they raise the perfect grapes,
To make a wine uniquely dry."

Aww, yer lookin' fer the vineyard,
Put yer ears on friend,
Make sure you take notes,
So's I ain't talkin' to the wind.

Now, y' head outta town, on ol' route 2,
Headed east fer a spell or so,
'Till y' come to a sign on an ol' red barn,
Say's Tommy's Trash and Tow.

When y' see that sign, yer gettin' close,
T' the place where y' need t' turn,
Take a left by the red hay shed,
Across from the Ash Creek burn.

Now y' take that left and follow the road,
Headed north fer a spell or so,
'Till y' come to the place where y' cross the creek,
With nowheres else t' go.

Now y' cross the creek, and go up the hill,
'Till y' come to a big ol' rock,
Take a right, and drive fer a while,
'Till y' start t' see'in stock.


When y' get t' the field, with the old John Deere,
Pardner, yer nearly there,
Take a left by the red calvin' shed,
And watch fer and old bay mare.

When y' see the mare, y' take a left,
And head up over the ridge,
You'll drop in the bottom and find the place,
On the other side of the bridge.

Well there y' are, I think that's it,
You'll find it right where I said,
It's easy t' find and hard t' miss,
Jist watch fer that red calvin' shed.

Well he took off with a puzzled look,
And headed on his way,
Surprise, surprise, he was right back here,
A little later that day.

"How do you get to the vineyard?"
He asked us once again.
Somehow he got lost,
Took a left at a red grain bin.

OK, friend, I'll tell y' once more,
This time put on yer ears,
It really ain't all that difficult.
Did y' get to the field with the steers?

He said, "Now just a minute.
I'm not from around here.
Is there an easier way to get there?
With directions that don't have a steer."

Weeelll, I reckon a fella could go,
Down the highway and turn at the light.
Head down county road nine,
And at the vineyard sign turn right.

© 2008, Slim Farnsworth
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Slim comments, "I lived in Crawford, Colorado for a number of years and would often find myself, especially in the winter, down at the Crawford Store. It was a small general store with a hotel, and all the old-timers would set down there after feeding cows in the morning and engage in your typical coffee shop communion. There was a donation can to cover the cost of the coffee, cause old man Ware supplied it free of charge, all you could drink. Everyone just kinda pitched in. One day in the summer everyone got rained out in the middle of haying, and we were all settin' there discussing the state of the union so to speak, when a fella came through the door that was obviously not from them parts. He asked for directions to Paonia which was about 12 miles by way of the back road, or 20 on the state highway. One of them old timers piped up and said, 'No problem mister." That old codger sent that fella south 60 miles to Gunnison over Black Mesa, then east about 20 miles then back north another 60 miles on a round trip about the longest way you could take to get to Paonia. A total of probably at least 120 miles or better, half of it on gravel roads. After that experience I got the idea to write a poem about rural directions in all their glory, as well as to immortalize the ornery nature of those old cowboys."

 

 

About Slim Farnsworth:

In 2006, Slim told us:

I was born and raised in the North Fork valley of Western Colorado.  I spent a lot of time with my granddad when I was young, cowboying. I am 24 years old, and live in Western Colorado. I grew up on a cattle ranch that my Granddad has since sold, and now I am in business with my Dad doing earthmoving construction. 

Visit Slim's web site: slimfarnsworthcowboypoetry.com