HOW MANY
How many poems ya got thar pardner?
Four hundred forty-five and countin'
How many poems ya got thar mister?
I said, four forty-five and countin'
Can I make it to five hundred, that's my goal
Writin' down little pieces of my soul
Gimme an idea, I'll run it up the flagpole
Four forty-five and countin'
How many rhymes can you make thar, pardner?
Four fifty-five or more, who's countin?
How many rhymes does it take thar pardner?
Four fifty-five, with floutin'
The words are true, tall tales too
How many do I need to please you?
More than a few, certainly beaucoup
Four fifty-five and countin'
Now how many ya got on the list
Four sixty-five and countin'
Maybe a few more that I missed
Four sixty-five and countin'
Stories for all the lads and lasses
Cows and horses eatin' the grasses
Cowboy poetry for the masses
Four sixty-five and countin'
One a day, sometimes two or more
Four seventy-five and countin'
Gettin' harder and harder to keep score
Four seventy-five and countin'
Five hundred on the way, wrote another just today
Well, it's sometimes work and sometimes play
Strike while the iron is hot, but not too hot, per se
Well, it's four seventy-five and countin'
Thoughts come and go, marchin' through my head
Four eighty-five and countin'
Gotta follow the path, follow the thread
Four eighty-five and countin'
I can see the light at the end
I can reach the goal but what then
Catalogue all that have been penned
Four eighty-five and countin'
Now I'm at the big four-nine-oh
Four hundred ninety and countin
Just ten, thats all, ten more poems to go
Four hundred ninety and countin
Cowboy poems, parodies and rants
About pants from France and a ghost dance
Rhymes for old times and games of chance
Four hundred ninety and countin
Whadda ya know, just five more to go
Four ninety-five and countin'
A pen is a sword and words are ammo
Four ninety-five and countin
Can I make it, who's to know?
Watch and see where they go
Some are real and some are faux
Four ninety-five and countin
Well, here I am - at the mark
Five hundred and still countin'
Just in time, another spark
Five hundred and still countin'
Five hundred poems filed away
Waiting for just the right day
Get up on stage and have my say
Five hundred poems tucked away
Said, it's five hundred and countin'
How many poems ya got thar pardner?
Four hundred forty-five and countin'
How many poems ya got thar mister?
I said, four forty-five and countin'
Can I make it to five hundred, that's my goal
Writin' down little pieces of my soul
Gimme an idea, I'll run it up the flagpole
Four forty-five and countin'
How many rhymes can you make thar, pardner?
Four fifty-five or more, who's countin?
How many rhymes does it take thar pardner?
Four fifty-five, with floutin'
The words are true, tall tales too
How many do I need to please you?
More than a few, certainly beaucoup
Four fifty-five and countin'
Now how many ya got on the list
Four sixty-five and countin'
Maybe a few more that I missed
Four sixty-five and countin'
Stories for all the lads and lasses
Cows and horses eatin' the grasses
Cowboy poetry for the masses
Four sixty-five and countin'
One a day, sometimes two or more
Four seventy-five and countin'
Gettin' harder and harder to keep score
Four seventy-five and countin'
Five hundred on the way, wrote another just today
Well, it's sometimes work and sometimes play
Strike while the iron is hot, but not too hot, per se
Well, it's four seventy-five and countin'
Thoughts come and go, marchin' through my head
Four eighty-five and countin'
Gotta follow the path, follow the thread
Four eighty-five and countin'
I can see the light at the end
I can reach the goal but what then
Catalogue all that have been penned
Four eighty-five and countin'
Now I'm at the big four-nine-oh
Four hundred ninety and countin
Just ten, thats all, ten more poems to go
Four hundred ninety and countin
Cowboy poems, parodies and rants
About pants from France and a ghost dance
Rhymes for old times and games of chance
Four hundred ninety and countin
Whadda ya know, just five more to go
Four ninety-five and countin'
A pen is a sword and words are ammo
Four ninety-five and countin
Can I make it, who's to know?
Watch and see where they go
Some are real and some are faux
Four ninety-five and countin
Well, here I am - at the mark
Five hundred and still countin'
Just in time, another spark
Five hundred and still countin'
Five hundred poems filed away
Waiting for just the right day
Get up on stage and have my say
Five hundred poems tucked away
Said, it's five hundred and countin'
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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ABSOLUTE ABSURDITIES
Your funeral will be better if you don't attend.
To go back where you came from is an impossibility.
Single-ingredient recipes have no blend.
A con-man has no civility.
An honest vegetarian won't eat Beefeater tomatoes.
You can't "gas-up" a diesel truck.
Rapidly told lies will sound like vibrato.
You don't have to be Yiddish to be a schmuck.
A slim chance and a fat chance are exactly alike.
He paid by the month to ride the elevator up to the gym.
How long does it take to make up lost pay after a strike?
No-iron, wash 'n wear apparel still won't make you look prim.
"After Dark" is, in all reality, "After Light."
During "rush hour," everything grinds to a halt.
There is no daytime equivalent for a nighttime flashlight.
A short person is challenged, but an electrical short is a fault.
If your phone is on airplane mode, why won't it fly?
A mirror can only see the reverse.
A banker's compassion is visible in his glass eye.
The last free ride you want is the one in the hearse.
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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[INTRODUCTION: I wrote this one with a reverse rhyme scheme
where the rhymes come at the start of the line because, believe me, with this
subject, you really wanna be at the start and not down at the finish line.]
SPIT TAKE
(Chew On This)
The cuspidor had a sign
The Matador was not allowed
No Bull in this pot
If full, use another
The saloon was rowdy
The buffoon couldn't cheat
The contest was fair
A spit-fest across the room
Old man Hubbard was first
Deadpan Sluggard took a turn
The first try missed
But Deadeye got a ringer
Spittin' is fun
Fittin' is better
Gun in your hand
Sun in your eye
Winner take all rules
Sinner gone for good
Next, was no-hair Hank
Hexed by the witch's curse
Barkeep took a turn
Black sheep waiting
Another ringer
Brother can you believe
One hundred tries
Some wondrous attempts
Used chew all over
Who's gonna clean up the mess
(Chew On This)
The cuspidor had a sign
The Matador was not allowed
No Bull in this pot
If full, use another
The saloon was rowdy
The buffoon couldn't cheat
The contest was fair
A spit-fest across the room
Old man Hubbard was first
Deadpan Sluggard took a turn
The first try missed
But Deadeye got a ringer
Spittin' is fun
Fittin' is better
Gun in your hand
Sun in your eye
Winner take all rules
Sinner gone for good
Next, was no-hair Hank
Hexed by the witch's curse
Barkeep took a turn
Black sheep waiting
Another ringer
Brother can you believe
One hundred tries
Some wondrous attempts
Used chew all over
Who's gonna clean up the mess
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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RACING 'CROSS TEXAS
Sam Bass had a lass
An equine filly, so rare
With racehorse sass
Known as the Denton Mare
Maybe grey, but who can say
Sorrel red from tail to head
A race a day except Sunday
Steedust line born and bred
He raced her North
He raced her South
'Cross Texas, back and forth
With bit in mouth
Until she won too much
And Sam got rich
And then got out of touch
With finances in the ditch
Sold the mare, so none would dare
Down San Antonio way
Bet it all and lost his share
Then forever rue'd the day
Sam Bass had a lass
An equine filly, so rare
With racehorse sass
Known as the Denton Mare
Maybe grey, but who can say
Sorrel red from tail to head
A race a day except Sunday
Steedust line born and bred
He raced her North
He raced her South
'Cross Texas, back and forth
With bit in mouth
Until she won too much
And Sam got rich
And then got out of touch
With finances in the ditch
Sold the mare, so none would dare
Down San Antonio way
Bet it all and lost his share
Then forever rue'd the day
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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