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sitting here in the light of my old barn leaning against a stall
a long hard day put away.
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All about Chris Ladeu
Sweetest Cowboy I ever knew
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That hanging tree was waitin
hands tied behind his back
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A ruthless wind stirred the aspens,
the August moon rose, cloaked in clouds.
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Drought is upon us here hay is seven dollars a bale,
drove into Catawba county to watch the cattle sales.
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Born a hundred years too late
want to ride shoot with a bandanna cross my face
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laying back in the hay
playing Russian roulette
by Rheea
26 lines, 17 comments,
on Nov 25 10:15 PM 2007. In cowboy poetry, Pain, Personal, Life, Love, Thoughts, Spiritual, Sad, Nature, Abuse
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I ride to die when pain takes over
becomes so great I can not focus
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pulling on jeans
tucking in tee
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I ride the hills of yesteryear
On a horse I call regret
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You are wide as you are tall
A horny kind of fellow
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His legacy is rodeo
And Cowboy is his name.
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A red and white-faced Braford, over sixteen hundred pounds / A bull they called Tornado and his fury knew no bounds / They said “He can’t b
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The trail was quiet and lonely, / The cattle had long went to sleep. / The old cowhand watched from a ridge top, / With no company but the
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The campfire light’s a dimmin’ and the stars are overhead / My saddle is my pillow as I get my blanket spread / The day has been a long one
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he rides for freedom / to feel the wind upon his beard / to taste the rain upon his lips / to hear the coyotes howl / their midnight song
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because she knows hes gonna go to that damn thing he calls a rodeo
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“Why, ain’t you a pearl!!” I grinned at my girl,
leaping out of my old ford truck
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From the prairies of Alberta
There came a bucking horse
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Over the mountains and past the foothills
The Chinook wind carols its winter song
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Frank Duce
Saddle Bronc
Champion
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The sun shines down on that mountain meadow
On sacred ground glides a tiny shadow
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After I’ve spent my last day here Doing the things I’ve always loved
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Heat up the irons, break out the beer
It’s a cowboy’s favorite time of year
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Where are they now?
The men we learned to hate
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Precariously he sat on the rusted tailgate of the old green ford.
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A rather lengthy narrative about saying goodbye to my father.
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If I was to admit my two fondest pleasures
Women and horses are the things that I treasure
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Through the skies on feet of wings
Hoof beats pound as a choir sings
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When I was a little girl I’d watch the cowgirls ride, I loved to watch them barrel race riding with pride.
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A dying breed "The Cowboy" now that's a story to tell, a story both young and old have come to know well.
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