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They're pissing on the cowboy dead drunk
back of Jack's passed out by the dumpster
near a pile of hoots and hollers waiting to combust
with the right airlessness and proper heat index
(This tale would rhyme if we called him "Tex").
He just walked right in Ten Gallon drunk
already under his hat and said he'd just rode
in for a drink so we poured him twofingers scotch
which he drank then commenced to call us
names as if HE didn't look a fool in cowboy duds.
We kicked his butt (but he wanted it) and dumped
him passed out out back by the mentioned dumpster
where they're pissing on that cowboy dead drunk.
We manhandled his wife-- said she was his sister
but we knew better; with that square dance dress,
took her for a Bible-read Baptist-- into the back seat
of a really too small car for cheap quick unasked sex
which she came to enjoy with her cowboy dead drunk.
Now I'm alone with my penis and a six-two lover
in a tight cell where I think of her dripping descendants
of friends and neighbors crying Lord Lord as she did
after the cowboy was declared DOA, dead drunk
him; and us bruised but none-the-worse for it.
God! I love Dallas! Yes, I do indeed love Dallas
in the heat light of morning through the dust
blowing out of some desert from the west
and, if I ever get out, no Christmas ever
will be like that night and I will wear no boots
but let cowboys die in them as they should
(five of us hurt in the fracas--
Jim's jaw broke, Ted's tendons torn,
Ken's knee popped, Will's wrist sprain,
my heels bloodied, my soul gone to hell--
but them boots was expensive).
This is what they'll remember of us
after we've gone
and call us "barbaric"
though we wore good boots.
Copyright John Horváth Jr. ([email protected])
--John Horvath Jr
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