WESTERN RHYMES: BREWS 'N CHEWS

WIND IN A SHEET

Does a ghost pass through the wind?
Or does he fly with the wind?
Does he act like a sail?
Or carry the wind in a pail?

Well, I know this to be a fact.
That regardless of the act,
And no matter what state of mind he's in,
A ghost can certainly pass wind.

Sitting alone in a room,
The unmistakable odor looms.
No one to point a finger at,
As I laugh at the notion of ghost scat.

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B.I.Y. (BREW IT YOURSELF)

Well, it's a sure bet that cowboys know how to drink beer

But did you ever hear of a cowboy who liked to brew?

Well, sit back and listen and a tale of such, you will hear

All about an Irish cowboy known as Suds O'Donoghue

Now Suds was best buds with a bloke who threw off the yolk

They left Ireland and came to the New World to make their score

And found themselves on a cattle ranch with no Irish folk

Livin' in a bunkhouse, miles from town, with not a pint to pour

When the need arises, a cowboy rises to the occasion

Once a month, they hijacked the cookhouse and scrubbed it down

Nary a stray virus could find a way to make an invasion

And they were more'n ready when Cooky returned from town

Hops and barley and a bright shiny copper bathtub new

A little malt for color and a roaring fire and the wait began

Stir and boil, boil and stir and then cool the brew

Aye, 'twas goin' to be a beer to make proud all their Irish kinsman

But there's a lot of waitin' and watchin' and not much else to do

So the boys began thinking of special names to attach

"Cactus Juice" and "Warsh Water" were considered and discarded too

And so were "Bunkhouse Blast" and "Sud's Blood Batch"

Well, they soon tired of striking up wacky names and turned to tellin' jokes

Suds came up first with a real knee-slapper about a gal from Nantucket

Then, Cooky thought of a shaggy dog story he learned from his folks

Before they knew it, they nearly blew it and burned their beer in the bucket.

When the batch was done and properly aged to fermentation perfection,

'Twas time to taste and swirl it around to see how long the foam would last

To their surprise, it was dark brown but with nary a hint of a burnt detection

And both the boys swore 'twas better'n anything they ever tasted in Belfast

"This is so good," said Suds, "We need to give it a proper name from the homeland"

"Perhaps we should use your great great grandpapa's name, if we have it in us"

All that day and long into the evening there was merriment and good fun by all the ranch hands

And so it was that some in the West got their very first taste of a brew called Irish Guinness

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WHAT THE PEOPLE NEED

There are problems in this country
And that's for sure and certain
Now let me say this plain and bluntly
We might as well be behind the iron curtain

Riders in the Sky always say
Things are a whole lot better
When done the cowboy way
And you can spell that with a capital letter

Gene Autry had a cowboy code
Not many today could pass the test,
Choosing to follow a wrong road
Finding honor in their own arrest

Well, to tell you true and pull no punches
The way this cowboy sees it,
Too many are going for the free lunches
And unwilling when the devil comes to seize it

To return to yesteryear, if only we could,
To a time when courtesy and respect ruled
When the cowboy way was right and good
And lawbreakers were swiftly cooled

So let me express this simple protest
And run it up the pole with the flag and eagle
What we need is a lot fewer people in the West
And a lot more West in the people

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DRINKIN' COFFEE WITH A FRIEND

Time to go for coffee is what he'd say
Anytime too much pain got in the way
Put the hammer down and take the apron off
Trot on down to the Golden Horseshoe trough

Talkin' 'bout the weather, the guv'mnt and such
In our two-man cowboy coffee clutch
Fixin' all the world's troubles and settin' it right
Thinkin' 'bout plans for new boots of mule hide

Sittin' round his shop on a stool
While he worked with coffee gettin' cool
Watchin' a saddle being built
Laughin' 'bout a seat like a crazy-quilt

His Arbuckles cup right there beside him
As he punched the holes in a Stetson wide brim
Arbuckles or French Market with chicory
Master Craftsman boots with interlaced trickery

Well, that Arbuckles cup was bequeathed to me
Just before he passed on to everlasting eternity
And now as I slowly sip his favorite Ariosa blend
I'm always drinking cowboy coffee with a friend.

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MOTHER NATURE'S REMEDIES

When a cowboy is young and on the go
He's got a head full of hair willin' to grow
But as he ages he loses some of it
And wonders just what became of it

The older he gets, the more he sees his skull
Lookin' like a giant peanut without a hull
The mirror doesn't lie, no matter how he cries
Mother Nature says: "Wear a hat, just you try"

Then the wind comes up and renders his hat
Useless for hiding where his shortcomings are at
Mother Nature's plans can't be thwarted
Even if you think your looks have been distorted

When a young cowpoke is just startin' out
All that hair on top is a big part of what he's all about
Prim and proper and groomed up nice for the gals
Notice how it's all up top to keep it out of the chaparrals

But as he gets older and much wiser, it's not needed much
And so Mother Nature finds ways to relieve him of the crutch
With years of wisdom crammed in a space not so large
It's just natural that she wants the sun to give him more charge

© 2026 Brian McNeal

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ODE TO THE COFFEE POT

It's big, it's blue and sits on the coals
It holds a lot for a crew of cowboy souls
With a bail for hanging from the tripod
First cup always goes to the ramrod

Enameled for longer wear
Smoky bottom, but we don't care
Long as it's hot 'n sassy
Or even on the side of brashy

A hinge on the lid so not to lose it
A bubblin' inside, when the cook brews it
A pot to contain the liquid tar
For cowboy's travelin' far

For boilin' water on the rare occasion
If'n we need to pull a calf by dissuasion
Or for warshin' out Cooky's socks
The ones that belong in the rag box

When our boots are too tight
Leftover coffee makes 'em just right
We hang it in the bushes with a cup inside
It sounds the alarm when the raiders hide

Without a coffee pot
We'd be a sure sorry lot
Oh, the campfire pot that brews
Cooky's best tool to enthuse

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MONSOON MOONSHINE

We was running a few head

Up on the Mogillon Rim.

Mustangs we'd trapped all summer,

Me and Bob and Roy and Tim.

We had an army contract -

For remounts that paid real well.

It was going to be a good season,

As far as any of us could tell.

Tim and Roy were hummin' a tune.

Bob had his harmonica blowin' soft.

I had the vittles ready, when suddenly -

The wind crashed the clouds aloft.

The skies darkened like the devil's den.

The horses were startled and spooked.

Horizontal lightning flashed the skies,

And the whole herd broke through the chute.

We trailed 'em on foot all night -

And half the day until noon.

They were the easiest catch you ever saw,

Considerin' it was the worst monsoon.

Some were layin' down in the meadow,

And some were just leanin' on the trees.

Lookin' like drunks hungover,

Ignoring the cool morning breeze.

They'd stopped when they found -

Our hidden moonshine still.

Tucked away up high on the Mogillon,

Right next to our own little gristmill.

Well, it was a shambles to say the least.

What the storm didn't do to it,

The herd took over and finished the job,

Just in time to save us from Sheriff Pruitt.

Inspecting the damage, we saw another story.

Lightning strike on the storage tank,

Boiled the brew on a second fire.

Now we have mustangs and Monsoons to thank.

The best moonshine in the state -

Once we got our still up and runnin' again,

And learned the lightnin' lesson -

Applyin' a second burn to the grain.

Now, you know, the mustang roundup -

Weren't nuthin' but a front.

And that contract was on confederate paper,

But it was a hell-of-a-stunt.

Allowin' us to cork and sell those jugs -

To the hill people and the valley below.

Well, to tell ya true, before long,

We were just plain rollin' in the dough.

Got us our own little juke joint on the Rim.

Mogillon Mustang Moonshine boys are here -

Providin' sippin, singin' and dancin' -

Soundin' just like the Sons of the Pioneers.

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BREWS 'N CHEWS

WESTERN RHYMES

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