A poem about a old cowboy I have pictured in my mind, that still rides the Arizona desert.
|I was just a boy of 6 when I met him, though I never knew his name;
Age and years had robbed him of youth, but they were not entirely to blame;
He limped, from a bullet lodged in his thigh, in his hand, he carried a cane.
He always set with a sigh, but never was there any shame.
Glorry I guess should have been his, but looking back, I see, he sought no fame;
The grown ups called him a liar, and said he'd burn in Hell's firey flame.
He told stories of vaquerros and banditos that rode across the range;
He spun yarns of camp fires and starry skies, in places both near and strange.
Of cattle drives, and outlaws he spoke, but they all called him derranged.
He was just looking for a friend, A lonely old man, who had out lived his time;
He wanted someone to know the history he saw and made, while in his prime;
Lest those he rode with were forgotten, in vain for to die.
In the desert he truly loved, years later, I heard he had died;
A riderless horse caused the Sherriff's posse to saddle up and ride:
They found him in the mesquite, his rifle and six gun by his side.
He had chosen this place for to camp, for he knew no stick built home;
In his saddle bags were letters, and a ranger's badge, polished till it shown;
We know he rides the desert still, for Arizona was his only home.
Perhaps he is branding for the Devil, maybe for the Lord he really does ride;
But we all know he's still out there, a firey stallion he sets astride;
A ghostly figure people see, when all alone, saying from, "from time, no man can hide."