HOOFBEATS AND HORNS
(The Band That Taught America to Stand)
When the Old West was tryin' to close its doors,
Some were still screaming: "Give us more and more."
As the new century's progress blew in with the wind,
Someone was saying: "The show is just about to begin."
It was Buffalo Bill's Wild West Cowboy Band,
The most popular entertainers in the land.
Across the pond for Kings and Queens,
Pacing the show for the Wild West scenes.
Long before the "Banner" became formalized,
Bill's Cowboy Band helped to normalize.
Opening the ceremonies; "Oh, say can you see,"
O're the home of the brave and the land of the free.
Arenas packed with thrills and chills,
From the Black Forrest to the Black Hills.
Continuous greasing of the entertainment gears,
Performing two shows a day for thirty years.
As the curtains fell on the old west show
Glimpses of yesterday, so long ago
One-by-one, they cleared the props
A thirty-year curtain drop
The show is over, the arena is empty,
But, something's lingering, wanting to tempt me.
It's the music, the notes, the scores.
Buffalo Bill's Wild West still rings from shore to shore.
Glimpses of yesterday, so long ago
One-by-one, they cleared the props
A thirty-year curtain drop
The show is over, the arena is empty,
But, something's lingering, wanting to tempt me.
It's the music, the notes, the scores.
Buffalo Bill's Wild West still rings from shore to shore.
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STEAMBOAT AND C.D.
He was the horse that couldn't be rode
That is until the day that Clayton Danks showed
Those were the days when there was no hurry
You rode for all you were worth without worry
There was no eight second clock to stop the show
Hooves pounded the ground and spurs raked the "Go"
You rode that horse with all it takes
You rode him until you found the brakes
Clayton Danks from the 2-Bar in Chugwater
Forked that black beast and sat down like a squatter
Many had tried before but called it quits too soon
Clayton rode ol' Steamboat from early morn to late afternoon
He never let go of the chance to claim the trophy
Ridin' the horse that couldn't be rode for any amount of money
The best bronc rider Cheyenne ever saw, before or since
And if you doubt that, I'll say it again, without a wince
Now ol' Steamboat and C.D. are all over the state
And all over the map as icons on the Wyoming License plate
A treasured pair that no other state could compare
A whistlin' horse and a cowboy willing to take the dare.
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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UNEMPLOYED SPURS
There are spurs that jingle and spurs that don't
Spurs that work and spurs that won't
Shiny silver spurs with inlaid brass
And rusty old trophies of a cowboy's past
There are single spurs and spurs in pairs
Some you hoard and some you shares
Some in the tack shed and some on the perch
Spurs for work and spurs for Sunday Church
Mexican spurs and Gal-Legs compete for space
On the mantle, on the wall or in the display case
Some stay on the boots, ready for the ride
Some get lost and while we seek, they hide
Some spurs just plum get worn out
From too much work on a cowboy's route
Some we retire and provide room and board
Usually those are the ones we hoard
Retired spurs on a pension plan
For work performed as a sidekick to a horseman
Now, solely for the purpose of creating drool
From old cowboys who lost theirs like a fool
Spurs that jingle and spurs the shine
Spurs with a pedigreed bloodline
I can't think of a better collection to own
Than a herd of spurs causing old cowboys to groan
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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RHYTHM OF THE TELEGRAPH KEY
The rhythm of the range,
The beat of horses' feet.
The bawling of the cattle,
And the shrill of the robin's tweet.
The rhymes at the end of the lines,
The story that is told.
Spoken out loud or written down,
Is the cowboy's gold.
It's not supposed to fit real neat.
Like a cactus with lop-sided arms,
It's a reflection of the life,
Not a polished jewelry charm
It's more like a telegraph key,
And not a metronome.
The rhythm is not monotonous,
Like a classic literary poem.
The rhythm of the range,
The beat of horses' feet.
The bawling of the cattle,
And the shrill of the robin's tweet.
The rhymes at the end of the lines,
The story that is told.
Spoken out loud or written down,
Is the cowboy's gold.
It's not supposed to fit real neat.
Like a cactus with lop-sided arms,
It's a reflection of the life,
Not a polished jewelry charm
It's more like a telegraph key,
And not a metronome.
The rhythm is not monotonous,
Like a classic literary poem.
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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WHERE THE WIND HAS AN ATTITUDE
If the Wyoming wind stopped blowing
Everyone in the state would fall over
That's not a guess, but sure knowing
From long term Ol' Wyo exposure
Folks there, all walk hunched over
At about a forty-five degree slant
Head tucked down under cover
Oh, they want to stand up, they just can't
I knew a man up there
Who dropped a hundred dollar note
The wind caught it in the air
And he had to chase it down the road
Wyoming wind is the state's fastest delivery service
When it absolutely, positively needs to get there overnight
But it's directionally challenged and sure to make you nervous
Send it to Denver this afternoon, and it's in Pocatello by daylight
Windsocks at Wyoming airports are long gone
Hanging out somewhere in Montana, I suppose
Instead they use log chains atop flag poles to hold on
And now they always know which way the wind blows
And those highway signs that flash your speed?
Well, when it says one hundred miles per hour,
That's not you, but probably just a tiny little seed
On its way to Idaho to become a Rocky Mountain flower
The term "News Anchor" was first coined by a man from Sheridan
He was tired of waking up and going for his newspaper across town
Now all his neighbors think he's a good Samaritan
For using a blacksmith's anvil to keep it weighted down
Highway road crews don't worry about fast cars
When they work in the most windy cities
Their flaggers might look like UFOs from Mars
But their worst fears are the eighty mile per hour debris
Once a Wyoming rancher moved out of state
The DMV clerk thought sure he was trying to fool her
His old driver's license said he was three foot-eight
But now, in Colorado, he unfolded like a carpenter's ruler
And what about the hundred dollars and the guy who lost it?
Well, we never saw him again, ain't that funny
Someone said they didn't think he ever caught it
But, he had a good run for his money
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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THE LEGEND OF PISTOL PETE
Young man Frank was not yet Pete
He had to learn how to beat
Marksmanship and faster draw
Sharpest shooter without a flaw
Eleven notches on his gun
Notches for his father's son
Killed one day after the war
Killed by the Regulators
Faster than the enlisted were
Nicknamed Pete by the commander
Pistol Pete would stick with him
Legend born from a colonel's whim
Eleven notches on his gun
Notches for his father's son
Killed one day after the war
Killed by the Regulators
Badge of honor on his chest
A hero in the lawless West
He rode 'em down, killed 'em all
Pistol Pete is what he's called
Eleven notches on his gun
Notches for his father's son
Killed one day after the war
Killed by the Regulators
Oh the stories he would tell
Stories of the Devil's hell
A bullfrog with a blade
Chased ladybugs in the shade
Frank Eaton was his name
Pistol Pete was cowboy fame
Aged ninety eight when he died
Pistol Pete was a friend of mine
Eleven notches on his gun
Notches for his father's son
Killed one day after the war
Killed by the Regulators
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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THE END OF AN ERA
The west officially died when they fenced the first range,
But some say it was the turn of the century when things got strange.
I'm sure it was all over in nineteen and three when Horn was suspended.
Is that when it was, in Cheyenne, when the west was officially ended?
Now you'll hear, I'm sure, that it was that danged ol' barbed-wire,
And some will swear that the railroad did the dirty trick for hire.
Could have been the invention of the horseless buggy,
Or maybe even just simply too much Eastern money.
When cowboys left the range to charge up San Juan Hill,
With horses left behind, there was no "Western Thrill."
Or, later when they went to battle in that great European war,
America's frontier cowboys fighting on foreign shores.
The West surely ended with Wyatt in nineteen twenty-nine,
In a quiet little Los Angles bungalow, is where the west died.
The end of an era, the closing of the book,
Those who came after, only copy the look.
The west officially died when they fenced the first range,
But some say it was the turn of the century when things got strange.
I'm sure it was all over in nineteen and three when Horn was suspended.
Is that when it was, in Cheyenne, when the west was officially ended?
Now you'll hear, I'm sure, that it was that danged ol' barbed-wire,
And some will swear that the railroad did the dirty trick for hire.
Could have been the invention of the horseless buggy,
Or maybe even just simply too much Eastern money.
When cowboys left the range to charge up San Juan Hill,
With horses left behind, there was no "Western Thrill."
Or, later when they went to battle in that great European war,
America's frontier cowboys fighting on foreign shores.
The West surely ended with Wyatt in nineteen twenty-nine,
In a quiet little Los Angles bungalow, is where the west died.
The end of an era, the closing of the book,
Those who came after, only copy the look.
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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DIE LITTLE SCREW WORM
[PARODY]
Die little screw worm, have no dinner
You're never gonna be a winner
Won't you leave my horse and cow alone
Surface wounds or down to the bone
Die little screw worm, you won't live long
Ivermectin paste control is strong
I got a horse that loves to fly
So, die little screw worm die
Die little screw worm, sooner is better
No need to wait for cooler weather
We'll drop steril males to mate with you
So, no fertile eggs will you produce
There's no welcome sign that waits for you
My horse ain't ready for the glue
We're all so glad you're about to die
Goodbye little screw worm, goodbye
https://www.texastribune.org/2026/06/03/new-world-screwworm-texas-reported-case/
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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SKUNK ON A LEASH
Now after the spring roundup was over and before the summer heat
We liked to go up to the mountain cabin to relax and cool our feet
It was a nice little community up there on the Mogollon Rim
And that's where we first met Tomahawk Jim
Year after year we went up to the Rim and mostly saw the same folks
A lot of retired or semi-retired couples with drinks and smokes
The clubhouse in town was just a short walk for most
And every night there'd be a card game and bar with no host
Now on poker night, there'd be a lot of the men at the table
But on Pinochle or Bridge nights, It'd be Agnes, Edna and Mabel
And a few others, but, it'd be mostly ladies and Jim
Well, this is where the story gets just a bit grim
You remember, I said this was up high in the cool air
And they have those little black and white kitties up there
Well, you know they like to scurry about at night
And that just gave all the ladies a terrible fright
They couldn't walk home without Jim to escort them
And that just kept ol' Jim busier than a mother hen
Now, not one of 'em had ever seen one of those critters
Only just hearin' 'bout 'em from the stories gave 'em the jitters
So night after night Jim walked this one that way
Then he'd turn around and walk another the other way
He prayed for more men to come to the clubhouse
'Cause if he denied them, he'd feel like a dumb louse
You should know that Jim said they never saw one on the walks home
But night after night, those ladies would allow their flashlights to roam
Scared to death they should encounter a big bad skunk
Especially considering some of 'em were a bit drunk
Now, Betty, being a rancher's wife was used to these things
She'd seen her share of bobcats, scorpions, skunks and snakes with rings
But, in spite of her age, these things didn't rattle her cage
And she thought it silly, the other girls having such rage
She finally had enough of it and wanted to play a practical joke
She knew Jim had a small black poodle and hooked him with a yoke
They got a flour and water mix and added some corn starch
Then painted a white stripe, head to tail, about an inch and a half large
Then 'bout midnight, he walked that dog right into the clubhouse on a leash
Up went the screams and profanity, down went the whiskey and the quiche
Midnight was the right time, with both eyesight and faculties dimming
No one saw the dog, but all said they saw a skunk and Jim just kept grinning
Not too many card games were held late at night after that episode
Sunday afternoons seemed a whole lot better to carry that load
And Jim, well, he said he sure did miss the camaraderie
And though he ain't walked nobody home, he still looks behind every tree
Well, that's the way it happened and if you doubt it, well, I'm here to say you're wrong
But the way the story is told today, way up high there on the Mogollon
Ol' Tomahawk Jim roped that skunk and swung it round his head
He swung it so hard and fast that the spray didn't stay but went to L.A. instead
And now you know the very reason why Los Angeles has that awful air
The indescribable foul smell and stench that seems to be everywhere
So if you're ever up high on the Mogollon Rim, breathing clear mountain air
You can thank Ol' Tomahawk Jim for not being stingy and willing to share
Now after the spring roundup was over and before the summer heat
We liked to go up to the mountain cabin to relax and cool our feet
It was a nice little community up there on the Mogollon Rim
And that's where we first met Tomahawk Jim
Year after year we went up to the Rim and mostly saw the same folks
A lot of retired or semi-retired couples with drinks and smokes
The clubhouse in town was just a short walk for most
And every night there'd be a card game and bar with no host
Now on poker night, there'd be a lot of the men at the table
But on Pinochle or Bridge nights, It'd be Agnes, Edna and Mabel
And a few others, but, it'd be mostly ladies and Jim
Well, this is where the story gets just a bit grim
You remember, I said this was up high in the cool air
And they have those little black and white kitties up there
Well, you know they like to scurry about at night
And that just gave all the ladies a terrible fright
They couldn't walk home without Jim to escort them
And that just kept ol' Jim busier than a mother hen
Now, not one of 'em had ever seen one of those critters
Only just hearin' 'bout 'em from the stories gave 'em the jitters
So night after night Jim walked this one that way
Then he'd turn around and walk another the other way
He prayed for more men to come to the clubhouse
'Cause if he denied them, he'd feel like a dumb louse
You should know that Jim said they never saw one on the walks home
But night after night, those ladies would allow their flashlights to roam
Scared to death they should encounter a big bad skunk
Especially considering some of 'em were a bit drunk
Now, Betty, being a rancher's wife was used to these things
She'd seen her share of bobcats, scorpions, skunks and snakes with rings
But, in spite of her age, these things didn't rattle her cage
And she thought it silly, the other girls having such rage
She finally had enough of it and wanted to play a practical joke
She knew Jim had a small black poodle and hooked him with a yoke
They got a flour and water mix and added some corn starch
Then painted a white stripe, head to tail, about an inch and a half large
Then 'bout midnight, he walked that dog right into the clubhouse on a leash
Up went the screams and profanity, down went the whiskey and the quiche
Midnight was the right time, with both eyesight and faculties dimming
No one saw the dog, but all said they saw a skunk and Jim just kept grinning
Not too many card games were held late at night after that episode
Sunday afternoons seemed a whole lot better to carry that load
And Jim, well, he said he sure did miss the camaraderie
And though he ain't walked nobody home, he still looks behind every tree
Well, that's the way it happened and if you doubt it, well, I'm here to say you're wrong
But the way the story is told today, way up high there on the Mogollon
Ol' Tomahawk Jim roped that skunk and swung it round his head
He swung it so hard and fast that the spray didn't stay but went to L.A. instead
And now you know the very reason why Los Angeles has that awful air
The indescribable foul smell and stench that seems to be everywhere
So if you're ever up high on the Mogollon Rim, breathing clear mountain air
You can thank Ol' Tomahawk Jim for not being stingy and willing to share
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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HYATT'S BALLS
Just a game of billiards for fun,
Where you can't keep your gun.
The table is racked and ready,
With cue in hand, ever-steady.
The stick is pulled back.
A perfect shot is the attack.
Rammed into the cue ball with a load.
KABOOM! Who knew balls could explode?
Imagine the commotion and chaos,
As men scramble for guns, lost.
Checked in weapons, not handy.
Needless, though, unlike the brandy.
A dirty trick or just an accidental fluke?
Inventor Hyatt's balls were in every saloon and juke.
Exploding balls to replace the ivory.
Don't use Gun-Cotton is the advisory.
Know who your enemies are -
Is the best advice by far.
And never get into a game of Billiard Balls,
Which almost became known as Bullet Balls!
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HYATT'S BALLS
Just a game of billiards for fun,
Where you can't keep your gun.
The table is racked and ready,
With cue in hand, ever-steady.
The stick is pulled back.
A perfect shot is the attack.
Rammed into the cue ball with a load.
KABOOM! Who knew balls could explode?
Imagine the commotion and chaos,
As men scramble for guns, lost.
Checked in weapons, not handy.
Needless, though, unlike the brandy.
A dirty trick or just an accidental fluke?
Inventor Hyatt's balls were in every saloon and juke.
Exploding balls to replace the ivory.
Don't use Gun-Cotton is the advisory.
Know who your enemies are -
Is the best advice by far.
And never get into a game of Billiard Balls,
Which almost became known as Bullet Balls!
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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CHANGES IN THE RANGES
Walk the way the winter wind blows.
Cold mid-century Wyoming snows.
Uniforms raise the flag to the top of the pole.
The trumpets blow against the drum roll.
Save your soul, save your sole, no new shoes, you lose.
Hypocrite shoes, Rock and Roll Blues, time for a top-down cruise.
Up and down the avenues, turnaround at the Owl,
See the pretty girls, honk the horn, wave and howl.
Tie-dyed, bell-bottoms, Neru, Draft cards, Ohio Guard.
Sit-Ins, Peace Signs, Neon, on the Boulevard.
Long pass, short run, Visitors yield.
Indians, T-birds, marching band's on the field.
Vietnam, Canada, Mexico, Senior trip, here we go.
Chicago eight, protest, unrest, another blow.
Spiro, Tricky Dick, cover-up, resignation.
Gas high, speed low, popular indignation.
The first WWW to debate.
Watts, Woodstock and Watergate.
We had Yahoos in and out of the army.
Google was a guy named Barney.
Big Boy in the park, curfew after dark.
Moon walk, short blocks, blonde locks.
Boys with long hair, Gov'ner Stan in the chair.
Battle of the Bands, mini skirts, the cast of "Hair."
Wonders in the west, Vedauwoo is the best
Boulders getting older, colder on the shoulder, obsessed
Homemade wine in a jug, chug-a-lug
Little America for coffee by the mug
Scotti's hamburgers, ten for a buck
VIP's Big Boy drive-in for good luck
Union Pacific tracks under the viaduct
Don't go, hell no, trust your gut!
Book a flight, say goodbye, fly high.
Don't look back, no regrets, in a pig's eye.
Changes on the ranges, and the pages.
It's always the same, all across the ages.
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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CAN HE JUMP?
Well, they got frogs that can jump
Out in Calaveras County,
And they got beans than can jump
Down Mexico way.
But can he jump, well, I'm here to tell ya -
Put yer money down, son,
Then watch how high he goes,
And get set to collect your pay.
A King can't jump a Queen.
Rosie the Ribiter jumped twenty one feet.
The Aussies got 'roos that jump and box.
Grandma's got Johnny Jump Ups in the garden.
But still you doubt he can jump.
Well, just you wait and see.
Watch King Tut jump that car.
Then you'll be beggin' my pardon.
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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| Bonnie Gray jumps King Tut over a car at the 1926 Cheyenne Frontier Days. She was known as “King Tut Cowgirl” and was one of the best trick riders of her time. (Bonnie Gray jumping “King Tut” over auto, Cheyenne Frontier Days, 1926, Leonard Stroud Collection, DRC, R3241.66.) |
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CHAMBER OF CON-MERSE
(Murder For Sale)
A murder a day was the low end of the scale
A murder an hour was what they had for sale
Palisades, Nevada, the bloodiest town in the West
All aboard! The train is leaving - next stop - death
Actions speak louder than words, but words helped the ruse
Eastern journalists and sketch artists help spread the news
Wild and wooly, blood and gore, carnage and plunder
It was no longer a town about to go under
A guaranteed shootout or a hanging right next to the depot
Every time a train pulled in, the passengers got a show
Natives in warpaint with fresh scalps and bloody hands
Threatening passengers in a tongue they didn't understand
Disappointed by the lack of the expected
The locals invented the image they wanted projected
Eastern tourists and newspaper men flooded the area
Looking for the excitement promised by the hysteria
Dime novel actors and slaughterhouse blood
Whatever it takes to satisfy the thirst of the flood
Tourists pouring in daily to see the disastrous fray
Long before the reenactments of today
The Wild West on display, boisterous and loud
Buffalo Bill would have been proud
It was working extraordinarily well under Eastern Big Tops
Why not let the crowd come west to make money in the shops
In all reality, they had one of the lowest crime rates
Not a lawman on the payroll, just in case
Complete manufactured tourism charade
So that the desired image could be conveyed
The Wild West just as the Easterners wanted it to be
Full of excitement and conflict, mayhem and debris
Guns, knives, iron, steel and anything ferrous
In reality, so peaceful they didn't even have a sheriff
(Murder For Sale)
A murder a day was the low end of the scale
A murder an hour was what they had for sale
Palisades, Nevada, the bloodiest town in the West
All aboard! The train is leaving - next stop - death
Actions speak louder than words, but words helped the ruse
Eastern journalists and sketch artists help spread the news
Wild and wooly, blood and gore, carnage and plunder
It was no longer a town about to go under
A guaranteed shootout or a hanging right next to the depot
Every time a train pulled in, the passengers got a show
Natives in warpaint with fresh scalps and bloody hands
Threatening passengers in a tongue they didn't understand
Disappointed by the lack of the expected
The locals invented the image they wanted projected
Eastern tourists and newspaper men flooded the area
Looking for the excitement promised by the hysteria
Dime novel actors and slaughterhouse blood
Whatever it takes to satisfy the thirst of the flood
Tourists pouring in daily to see the disastrous fray
Long before the reenactments of today
The Wild West on display, boisterous and loud
Buffalo Bill would have been proud
It was working extraordinarily well under Eastern Big Tops
Why not let the crowd come west to make money in the shops
In all reality, they had one of the lowest crime rates
Not a lawman on the payroll, just in case
Complete manufactured tourism charade
So that the desired image could be conveyed
The Wild West just as the Easterners wanted it to be
Full of excitement and conflict, mayhem and debris
Guns, knives, iron, steel and anything ferrous
In reality, so peaceful they didn't even have a sheriff
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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