Your voice is a bellicose bark of ill-will, On hatred and choler you seem to have fed; But when I control you, your temper is nil; In fact, you're most easily led. Though lead is your diet and fight is your fun, I simply can't give you the jolt; For I love you, you blessed old son-of-a-gun,-- You forty-five caliber Colt! _Burke Jenkins._ WHEN BOB GOT THROWED THAT time when Bob got throwed I thought I sure would bust. I like to died a-laffin' To see him chewin' dust. He crawled on that Andy bronc And hit him with a quirt. The next thing that he knew He was wallowin' in the dirt. Yes, it might a-killed him, I heard the old ground pop; But to see if he was injured You bet I didn't stop. I just rolled on the ground And began to kick and yell; It like to tickled me to death To see how hard he fell. 'Twarn't more than a week ago That I myself got throwed, (But 'twas from a meaner horse Than old Bob ever rode). D'you reckon Bob looked sad and said, "I hope that you ain't hurt!" Naw! He just laffed and laffed and laffed To see me chewin' dirt. I've been prayin' ever since For his horse to turn his pack; And when he done it, I'd a laffed If it had broke his back. So I was still a-howlin' When Bob, he got up lame; He seen his horse had run clean off And so for me he came. He first chucked sand into my eyes, With a rock he rubbed my head, Then he twisted both my arms,-- "Now go fetch that horse," he said. So I went and fetched him back, But I was feelin' good all day; For I sure enough do love to see A feller get throwed that way. _Ray._ COWBOY VERSUS BRONCHO HAVEN'T got no special likin' fur the toney sorts o' play, Chasin' foxes or that hossback polo game, Jumpin' critters over hurdles--sort o' things that any jay Could accomplish an' regard as rather tame. None o' them is worth a mention, to my thinkin' p'int o' view, Which the same I hold correct without a doubt, As a-toppin' of a broncho that has got it in fur you An' concludes that's just the time to have it out. Don't no sooner hit the saddle than the exercises start, An' they're lackin' in perliminary fuss; You kin hear his j'ints a-crackin' like he's breakin' 'em apart, An' the hide jes' seems a-rippin' off the cuss, An' you sometimes git a joltin' that makes everything turn blue, An' you want to strictly mind what you're about, When you're fightin' with a broncho that has got it in fur you An' imagines that's the time to have it out.