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Listen to an MP3 of "The
Flying Horse" or read the poem here.
The Dying Breed
I can't call myself a cowman;
Hell, I've never owned a cow,
But I've worked for some good ones;
some that sure enough know how
To make the calf crops pay the bills
when there wasn't enough rain,
Or hold their own with bureaucrats
and play that never-ending game
Men whose word is binding;
Whose handshake is their bond.
They give what is expected
and then they go beyond.
Men who understand good horses,
and what cow mammas tell their calf;
Who take life "rough and tumble"
yet still manage a good laugh.
Whose hands are rough and rope-burned,
who walk with stiffened gait.
Who stick by a friend through thick or thin
and never vacillate.
Who took good care of their land
before that was politically correct,
Who feel endowed by their Creator
to preserve and protect
The land they are stewards over
and that job they took to heart
They made their life's work ranching
and they play well their part.
So it's been my lot for many years
to have worked for some of the best
Of these men who may be a "dying breed"
yet have not shirked the test.
Who have not knuckled under
or sold out to the corporate dragon.
Who've held the ranch together
and still ride out with the wagon.
And I thank the Lord in heaven
for giving me the chance
To know some of these good men
who still work the "family ranch."
© 2001, Chris Isaacs, reprinted with permission
from Rhymes, Reasons and Pack Saddle Proverbs
The Flying Horse
As a cowboy "making a circle"
You can see some funny things,
But the strangest one I ever saw
Was a horse that sprouted wings.
It was way up on the Hulsey Bench
When the summer grass was high;
One of those days so filled with beauty
It'd bring a tear right to your eye.
I was riding ol' Spud and leading a mule,
Packing in a load of salt,
When a bend in the trail brought to my eye
A sight that made us halt.
There in the meadow asleep like a babe
Laid a big ol' buckskin mare.
She was dreaming the dreams of the pure in heart;
She didn't have a care.
She must have filled her belly in the cool of the morn
And when the sun got high
She found her a sunny spot to sleep
And just dream of the by-and-by.
Now the thing that was odd about this scene,
That would get your attention twice,
Was off to the side stood a big black crow
Just as cool as summer ice.
The ol' crow seemed perplexed, he wasn't quite sure
If the mare was alive or dead.
So he hopped to and fro all around ol' Buck
From her tail plumb up to her head.
Now where to begin on this pleasant repast,
The ol' crow sat there and thought.
To start at one end and just work my way through,
That's the best was as likely as not.
Now if I start at the head I'll run into them bones,
And they're mighty hard on my beak.
But if I stick to the soft parts and bypass the rest
I ought to have him gone in a week.
So Mr. Crow hopped up around to the back of ol' Buck,
Just to find him a good place to start.
He looked up and down from the him and the hock
Just to find the tenderest part.
Now with ol' Buck stretched out like a stiff on a slab,
It sorta left her tail stickin' out in the air.
And right there underneath seemed a good place to begin;
Why, there wasn't even no hair.
Mr. Crow looked again and said to himself,
"Oh, my, is that a bullseye I see?
I swear, that shows me right where to start,
And the best part of all, it's plumb free!"
So, without further ado, he raired back and pecked
And hit that bullseye right there on the dot,
But his joy turned to horror when Buck's tail clamped down
And Mr. Crow realized he was caught.
Ol' Buck quit the earth like a space shuttle flight
Just leaving the launching pad.
To be woke from her dreams in just a fashion
I figure it drove her plumb mad.
She jumped, she bucked, she whirled, she kicked;
She was clearing the tops of the trees,
With that ol' crow's head clamped tight under her tail
And his wings just fanning the breeze.
Now the higher she'd buck, the harder he'd flap,
And they both had something they wanted to lose,
But the harder he'd pull, the tighter she'd clamp;
It was kinda like one of them "catch twenty-twos."
'Course from where I was sitting it was easy to see
How ol' Buck could've cured all her ills.
If she'd just lifed her tail and broke wind real hard
She'da blowed that crow plumb over the hill.
But when I seem 'em last they was tearing down trees
And clearing the brush, far and wide;
Ol' Buck trying to pinch the head off that crow,
And him just a whippin' her hide.
Like I said at the first, as a cowboy at work
You can see some peculiar things.
But the strangest thing I ever saw
Was that horse that sprouted wings.
© 2001, Chris Isaacs, reprinted with permission
from Rhymes, Reasons and Pack Saddle Proverbs
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