Making Cowboys

Nonsense

A cowboy isn’t hard to make.
You only need some dust,
A cactus spine, one moonshine jug,
And sourdough for the crust.

You stick that mixture on a horse
And leave it in the sun.
You let it bake, you let it bounce,
You let that bronco run.

Now dump it out and kick it hard,
Then slap it with a hat.
A pair of boots, a pair of spurs,
And that, my friends, is that.

You name your cowboy Pistol Pete,
Or maybe Jake or Tex.
(The ones named Slim are tough as twine
With long and wiry necks.)

You never name them Ethelred,
Lord Fauntleroy, or Schwarz.
Don’t dress them up in Scottish kilts,
Nightgowns, or tennis shorts.

Feed them on biscuits, beans, and beef,
Bed them on fresh-cut hay.
Teach them a song whose chorus goes
A tie eye yippie yay.

Your cowboy, if he’s right, will have
A strong and handsome jaw.
But be aware he’s apt to spit
A ripe tobacco chaw.

It’s best to let him sow his oats
At night in a saloon.
One safety tip: don’t challenge him
To quick-draw at high noon.

Our cowboy kits are selling fast,
So don’t delay, act now
And we’ll include a meadow pie
For building your own cow.

—Henry Rathvon