Cowboy Poetry
by
John P. Doran
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Now cowboys are a different breed, like diamonds are to coal.
Tough on the out side just to survive, but they’ve got music in their souls.
And every cowboy loves a tune and sings one if he can.
And to play an instrument with skill is in every cowboys plan.
See the guitar and the fiddle are favorite bunkhouse tools,
And a mandolin thrown in for good don’t seem to break no rules.
But me, well I’m different, some might say a bit deranged,
Cause I choose an instrument with a shape and sound so strange.
I got myself some bagpipes, you know those highland pipes of war.
I’d tame those black sticks with a will, learn to play by god I swore.
Now playing pipes is like riding broncs, anyone can have a go.
But to see the endeavor to it’s end you stick with it or you get no show.
But have you ever tried to play the pipes? I’ve heard cat fights
sounding better.
Yet I stuck to it with a will of steel, you see I aint no quitter.
And I found my life disrupted, not all shared my music zeal.
I was banished from the ranch house, made to play across the field.
Things around the ranch were changing, it weren’t the same in my
old digs.
The neighbors called the sheriff, thought I was torturing the pigs.
The ranch dog that we had was an old one eyed blue healer.
She heard the sound and left for town and no one since has seen her.
Then the town sent round a delegation, I listened politely to what
they’d say.
They offered fifty dollars cold hard cash, if I would just not play.
And the alfalfa in the fields when the bloom had come around,
They bent their heads back in the dirt just to try and block the sound.
The sound emitted from these pipes was loud and crude and rough.
The coyotes left for higher ground, the competition was too tough.
Then the milk cow she would give no milk, the hens refused to lay.
Hell I thought music soothed the savage beast, that’s what I’ve always
heard them say.
And the cattle formed protective circles, the calves shoved to the
middle.
But I kept on practicing those skirling sounds, I was getting better, just a
little.
So I stuck to it, weathered every storm, practiced each and every day,
And after three long months of hellish sound the tunes began to play.
Now some folks think my choice is really rather strange.
But I’ll bet five bucks you rarely see a cowboy piper on the range.
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