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Playing is the tune
By
"Curley" Fletcher
I"m a-layin' around, just spendin’ muh time,
Out of a job an' ain't holdin' a dime,
When a feller steps up, an' sez, "I suppose
that you're uh bronk* fighter by the looks uh yure clothes."
"Yuh figures me right-I'm a good one, I claim,
Do you happen tuh have any bad uns tuh tame?
He sez he's got one, uh bad un tuh buck,
An fur throwin' good riders, he's had lots uh luck.
He sez that his pony has never been rode,
That the boys that gets on 'im is bound tuh get throwed.
Well, I gets all excited an' asks what he pays,
Tuh ride that old pony uh couple uh days.
He offers uh ten spot. Sez I, "I'm yure man,
Cause the bronk* never lived, that I could't fan;
The hoss never lived, he never drew breath,
That I couldn't ride till he starved plum tuh dath.
I don't like tuh brag, but I got this tuh say,
That I aint't been piled fur many uh day."
Sez he, "Get yure saddle, I'll give yuh a chance."
So I gets in his buckboard an' drifts tuh his ranch.
I stays until mornin', an right after chuck,
I steps out tuh see if that outlaw kin buck.
Down in the hoss corral, standin' alone,
Was this caballo, uh strawberry roan.
His laigs is all spavined an' he's got pigeon toes,
Little pig eyes an' uh big Roman nose,
Little pin ears that touch at the tip
An uh double square iron stamped on his hip.
Yew necked an' old, with uh long narrow jaw,
I kin see with one eye, he's uh reg'lar outlaw.
I put on muh spurs-I'm sure feelin' fine-
Turns up muh hat, and picks up some twine.
I throws that loop on "im, an' well I knows then,
That before he gets rode, I'll sure earn that ten,
I gets muh blinds on him, an' it sure was a fight,
Next comes muh saddle-I screws it down tight.
An then I piles on 'im, an' raises the blind,
I'm right in his middle tuh see 'im unwind.
Well, he bows his old neck, an' I guess he unwound,
Fur he seems tuh quit livin' down on the ground.
He goes up t'ward the East, an' comes down t'ward the West,
Tuh stay in his middle, I'm doin' muh best,
He sure is frog-walkin', he heaves uh big sigh,
He only lacks wings, fur tuh be on the fly.
He turns his old belly right up toward the sun,
He sure is uh sun-fishin' son-of-uh-gun,
He is the worst bucker I seen on the range,
He kin turn on uh nickle*an' give yuh some change.
While he's uh-buckin' he squeals like uh shoat,
I tell yuh, that pony has sure got muh goat.
I claim that, no foolin', that bronk* could sure step,
I'm still in muh saddle, uh-buildin' uh rep.
He hits on all fours, an' suns up his side,
I don't see how he keeps from sheddin' his hide.
I loses muh stirrups an' also muh hat,
I'm grabbin' the leather an' blind as uh bat.
With uh phenomenal jump, he goes up on high,
An' I'm settin' on nothin', way up in the sky,
An' then I turns over, I comes back tuh earth
An' lights in tuh cussin' the day of his birth.
Then I knows that the hosses I ain't able tuh ride
Is some of them livin '-they haven't all died,
But I bets all muh money they ain't no man alive,
Kin stay with that bronk* when he makes that high dive.
( * This is the spelling used in the original poem.)
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