Iím jest a old hard and fast ďRimmyĒ
Thatís allus worked one certain way.
I was talkiní to Eddie and Jimmie,
And itís better to dally they say.
You often have heard people talkiní
That it donít hurt a feller to try.
Now I never was much hand fer knockiní,
But Iím williní to state thatís a lie.
It was on the beef hunt last September
I jumped a big three-year-old steer.
He gave me a few to remember,
He went through the bresh like a deer.
He certainly knowed how to do it.
He was leaviní from there like a bat.
But I sez, jest you help yourself to it,
Iíll soon be around where youíre at.
The hoss I was ridiní, Iím saying,
Was lazy but not very slow.
He had the world cheated fer stayiní,
If youíd spur him you bet he could go.
That steer? Hadnít no chance to turn him,
He wasnít the turn around breed.
So I reckoned Iíd start in and learn him
By breakiní the critter to lead.
I sent my old loop his direction,
I jerked at it and let my rope cross,
Then I aimed to establish connection
Betwixt that said steer and my hoss.
I dabbed fer my winds on ďOld Sally,Ē
But the hoss sort of shirked and hung back.
I thought I had room fer a dally
But the steer got away with my slack.
Then my whole constitution jest buckles,
Like when somebody tromps on your corn.
Fer the end of my rope and my knuckles,
Was all that I got on the horn.
My hand was all busted and mangled.
Got one crooked finger now. See?
Well, I follered the steer till he tangled,
And got him tied up to a tree.
There is certain sad memories that lingers,
And I reckon that this one will last.
I may break my neck, not my fingers,
But Iíll risk it and tie hard and fast.
by Bruce Kiskaddon
from Rhymes of the Range: And Other Poems, page 19-20
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