We used to have a larger group
Ten thousand head at best
Once we had the largest herd
Of Longhorn in the west

But, times got tough, we sold a few
There was the drought back in '11
I didn't know it got so bad
But, now....we're down to seven

Yep, seven steers and cows and calfs
Out standing in our field
There's not a lot of meat out there
It's really a poor yield

The Longhorns down in Texas
Took our football tickets back
They said that our best looking cow
Was like a blanket on a rack

We've done our best to make amends
We'll be on top once more, I'm sure
But, we have to keep the calfs all fed
Or else ....we're down to four

There's lots of land for them to graze
They'll grow big, I am assured
But, now I find it difficult
To call seven head...a herd

Everybody knows
Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic
as the Three "R's" you need
Without them
you'll go nowhere
and never will succeed

Writing...that's a W
and Arithmetic an A
so, who ever came up
With "Three "R's"
was having a bad day

Now, go and ask a cowboy
what the three "R's"
are to him
You'll get a different answer
I'll bet you
one to ten

Ropin', Ridin' and Rodeo
The cowboy's three R list
Reading, Writing, Arithmetic
the big three that I missed

But if they do not have the first three
They are not a cowboy
not a chance
they're just another townie
just another fancy pants

So, to be a proper cowboy
there's six "R's"
they must know
the first three
along with
ridin', ropin, and
rodeo

It was known just as "The Tree"
It was on the fence line of Jade Ranch
And on the wizened, hardened oak
Was a limb, known as "The Branch"

On the branch hung seven ropes
Of seven different lengths
Depending on the sentence
They chose one of seven strengths

Now a posse and a lynch mob
Are two completely different groups
You may always end up hanging
But through two different loops

Get caught with someone else's horse
By someone from on the ranch
Then you'll face Western Justice
And end up hanging from "The Branch"

Western justice it was called
And lynch mobs had a thirst
To see you hanging from "The Tree"
If you didn't meet the Marshall first

Get caught with an extra ace
You'll be called out as a cheat
You will never make "The Tree"
You'll get gunned down in your seat

But, have a horse, that's not your brand
And a lynch mob's soon around
Western Justice will prevail
With you ten feet from the ground

You'll sit upon the horse you stole
No one hears your weak defence
One slap and the verdicts in
You'll hang on the ranch side of the fence

Shoot a man in town and you
Will end up in the local jail
But, shoot him where the Law is not
And Western Justice will prevail

Seven ropes of different lengths
Take a man on to his death
Once the horse is slapped to go
No one will hear your last breath

There's a lynch mob and a posse
You don't know just how close they are
One does what they think is right
One feels the same, but has a star

"The Tree" is there in waiting
For the next rope to be strung
If you aren't caught by the Marshall
From "The Branch" you will be hung

In June of 1870, my Great Great Granddad was playing Poker in the Old West.
Even though he was shot, the law neglected to place the murderer under arrest.
My Great Great Granddad wasn't being honest, he was cheating.
He was plugged through the heart and his heart stopped beating.
When he was exposed as a cheater, the killer blew him away.
Even though it was ******, the law never made that man pay.
When my Great Great Granddad cheated the killer, it was wrong, that is something I won't deny.
But when that man got off scott free, it was also wrong, my Great Great Granddad didn't deserve to die.

The firelight was fading
The shadows grew in size
In the distance if you listened
You could hear the faintest cries
Of coyotes and of timber wolf
Signalling the end of day
Howling at the growing moon
Keeping night spirits at bay

The last piece of the sagebrush
Was burning to it's core
The flames that danced as quicksilver
Now, they danced no more
The fire, once was blazing
It's flames a dangerous height
Was now a nest of coal chunks
to warm us through the night

Four days out and three to go
We'd be in two days ahead
The scheduled trip with this years herd
And we'd be back in our own bed
A smaller group of beef this time
But, that's the way it goes
At least we'd leave the mountains
Before the early snows

Coffee from the morning meal
Was still sitting in the ***
Two minutes in the embers
And it was steaming hot
The first round of watch was up
And the coffee was re done
The second watch, for wolves and things
Needed coffee and a gun

Two went down the first night out
We heard the wolves, but missed them all
They'd been following us for three days now
And at night you'd hear them call
They signalled that the day was done
And that the herd was staying still
The darkness was their element
It was time for them to ****

The fire was near finished
The flames were all but smoke
but that cup of cowboy coffee
put life into this old grey cowpoke
If the wolves kept at a distance
And just kept howling at the moon
We'd lose no more beef tonight
And be home two days from noon

The fire spit and crackled
The night was damp and cold
The stars were silent beacons
To the wolves so quick and bold
We heard them in the distance
Howling loud as if to say
Will you make it through till morning?
Wait until we come to play.....

From the time that Billy was a kid
There was evil in the things he did
His mama knew it
And I knew it too

I told her that he needed help
I tried to avoid this evil whelp
I had to find out
Something I could do

Billy's teachers said he's bad
In fact the worse kid that they had
They sent him home
And kicked him out of school

I told his mama, he can't be mine
She blamed the Mogen David wine
we had when
we were on our honey moon

As he grew up, he wouldn't change
He'd spend his time out on the range
doing things
we didn't want to know

I told his ma, I've had enough
We can't keep hiding from this stuff
the folks about
will run us out of town

It's bad enough when I go for beer
The bartender serves me with a sneer
And the other's look away
Or just look down

I know Billy has a dedication
To certain kinds of medication
But nothing ever helps
The way he acts

We can't blame the Mogen David wine
I said Ma, I think it's time
That Billy left
and that's the facts

Mama cried, but knew the truth
He couldn't live beneath our roof
Or we'd end up
in an early grave

One night I went and said to Billy
You may laugh, and think I'm silly
but, son you have a week
you have to go

Billy nodded and kept on eating
This was a short,  family meeting
He looked at me
and said real slow

Pa, I know you don't love me
And ma as well, it's plain to see
We ain't the same
and I ain't moving on

I didn't argue, just got up
I couldn't eat, I couldn't sup
I had to end this
I had to get a gun

I knew I couldn't take him down
But, I'd find someone around the town
someone who would
Rid me of my child

No one came to help us out
I even gave the lord a shout
Help us god
our kid is just too wild

A fellow came, in a week, ten days
His name was Pat, to change Bills ways
He said he'd help
tomorrow night

He faced down Billy at high noon
Bill, dropped like a lead balloon
His ma and I just knew
That this was right

Pat, said things will work out fine
It wasn't Mogen David wine
that made Bill bad
It's just the way of life

He rode off in the setting sun
He'd killed our boy with his six gun
with Billy gone
it's just me and my wife

The sleet is drawing boxes 'round
our mud-and-snow sashed towns.
We'll check 'em off
                      with crunching footsteps,
slash our gallows grins through static
weather. Nervous laughter fights off winter
while somnambulist nights
                    hold the anthill days at bay.

And each repeated conversation
coats a thrumming undercurrent
echoed by the groaning rivers
in their arthritic fatigue.

     where the ice piles up
              like car wrecks.

And, out of those disastrous angles,
     jumps up and trips back down.
          Blinking eyelids, right then left.
               Sunrises. Sunsets.
Dusks and dawns in places familiar
wading through liminal space.

Circles darkened. Footprints filled in.

The heat just circles lazily.
Our flushed and clammy brows
will **** askance
               and sweat while footsteps
melt our swaying way through boiling
sidewalks. Nervous laughter dulls the impact
of seared, rapid fire nights.
             "Ha." "Ha." Shrug off another.

And all repeated reminiscence
does is hamstring overthinking
of the closing jaws of traps
in these rusting western towns.

        where winds breathe dust
                by mouthfuls

So, into our familiar mishaps,
     ***** up and falls back down
          melting into neighborhoods
               dress down, upbraid us.
'Til our feet do not walk circles
'round these wilting Western towns.

The black, white and the Grey
Sounds like a Gothic cliche
Automatically people want to run away
When they see those colors being worn by a individual
They're definitely the opposite of subliminal
To judge them is stereotypical
If you ask me, we can arrange a miscible
To embrace morbid unity
To make a deal with the past
Where lives were ended by a speedy gun blast
The good, bad and the ugly
Was the old school Black,white and grey