He had been one of those confirmed bachelors!
I knew this 'cause he told me so, as first one little child, then another climbed upon his lap.
The little girl with golden locks looked just like her ma,
And the butch-haired lad in a denim shirt, sure favored his ol' pap.

The cowboy began to reminisce
Of how his single days had been.
He'd enjoyed, or so he thought, 
Those glorious days of sin.

He'd rope and cuss, ride and shout;
He'd spur a colt's front side,
Then head for that old waterin' hole
And let the whiskey be his guide.

He said he didn't know it then 
But his times of glory were about to end,
The day a blue-eyed filly took down her rope 
And rode into the brandin' pen.

She built a loop, gave it a shake or two,
Swung it once around her head,
Then patted her gelding twice on his neck,
"Here we go, Buddy," was all that she said.

Her backhand was deadly, never missed its mark;
The herd barely knew she was there.
"Yeah," he said, "she and that gray had a workin' arrangement;
They surely made quite a pair."

He continued with his story, saying, 
"I don't know what came over me,
But, every time that woman looked my way, 
I felt as silly as could be!"

"Her long, blond hair was woven such
To resemble horsehair reins,
And her pretty hide was sun-touched brown
And matched her golden mane."

"Well, it soon dawned on me," he continued, 
"That the boys were keeping tally,
Of the calves she roped and of the ones 
When I had missed my dally."

"I don't know what got into my rope that day;
Never saw such figure eights.
Kept finding my rope beneath my horse's tail
From jerking the slack too late."

"I blamed bad luck upon my rope 
And on my goosey hoss.
Don't think it was that perfume, 
When she gave her head a toss!"

"No, it didn't have a thing to do 
With how she filled her chaps,
Or the way she gently laid her gloves, 
Across her pretty lap!"

"I'll never know how life might have been
If I hadn't missed my bovine quest,
And dabbed a wild, unplanned loop
Around her ample chest."

...Well, the rest, as I could plainly see 
Turned into western joy,
As his little bit of heaven 
Rides with that well-broke, ol' cowboy.

Copyrights: Photos and page text content copyrighted, Cris Paravicini, 2001. No part may be reproduced without permission of the author/photographer. Page graphics copyrighted, Pinedale Online, 1999.