Cowboy Poetry, Tall Tails from the Lazy O
by Ken Whitecotton

Ken Whitecotton was born in 1948 in Northwest Colorado. He was raised on a small ranch just south of Steamboat Springs. Years later, after deciding it was a mite too cold there for man or beast, he moved to Tucson, Arizona. (One of his works, "The Wood Pile," tells of this).  He worked in law enforcement in Colorado and Arizona for nigh on to 30 years.  He is now retired, and spends his time fixin' up houses, fishin', huntin', and writin' cowboy poetry.

He began his writing in his late teens (one of his works, "Ditties on a Beer Label," explains this). After a tour in Viet Nam his work began to acquire greater depth.  He experimented in many different genres, and has only recently adopted the Cowboy Poetry approach because, as he says, "it's so much more fun."

The Lazy O

I'm up here ta tell y'all somethin' 'bout brands,
That blackened, burned-on scar on ol' cowhide.
It took a real artist ta do it right,
An' make a good mark on an ol' cow's side.

Thar were so many styles an' variations,
Ta all the letters an' numbers ever known.
So if ya' didn't do it jist 'xactly right,
Ya' ended up with a brand that weren't yer own.

Say one ranch branded with a Lazy 7,
An' the neighbor's cows carried a Lazy L,
The confusion such a thing would often cause,
Sent many 'pokes on an early ride ta hell.

On thet li'l ol' ranch where I grew up,
Every year at brandin' time, this I knew:
I was the one ta handle the hot irons,
An I needed help from the whole damn crew.

They had ta hold that calf real still,
I had ta place that iron jist so.
'Cuz we branded all our cattle,
With that now most infamous brand, The Lazy O.

A Child's Cowboy Dreams

Oh, sure, I watched the cowboy movies,
Rex Allen, Slim Pickens, and the rest.
And I dreamed 'bout bein' one o' them,
'Bout those cowboys at their very best.

My grandpa told me many stories,
And I watched all the ol' wranglers, too.
And then in my daily youthful play,
I was those heros to me and you.

Across hay meadows and open sage,
I chased made-up bandits full of harm
Whilst out thar doin' my daily chores,
Like bringin' the milk cow to the barn.

My brothers became sneaky rustlers
Tryin' to steal away my cattle.
But I would always whup 'em real good,
In each mock made-up cowboy battle.

I never got to ride with Goodnight,
Or best a fightin'-mad mountain bull.
But the value o' that cowboy life,
Still lives and breathes in my weary soul.

Sometime soon, I 'spect it's gonna come,
When I'll be laid 'neath the prairie grass.
Til then, the values of cowboy life,
I vow that I'll never let them pass.

This one child's unhaltered play-time dreams
Of those honest men of steel and sand,
Will be broadcast with their life lessons
Upon every stage I'm asked to stand.