The Ballad of Bronco Bruce

The Ballad of Bronco Bruce
Oh, cowboys, they are strange indeed,
Every one of them weird and queer,
But when it comes to oddity,
Bronco Bruce, he had no peer

Now Bronco Bruce was a roving man--
A real rider of the range.
Sure, every cowpoke's a little off,
But Bruce was really strange.

He rode his mare, Vanilla Nell--
She was snow-white, of course--
Side-saddle, like an English Lady
Rides her favorite horse.

And when he drank his morning coffee
From his personal silver cup
Her made damn sure his pinkie finger
Was out and straight and up.

His bedroll, it was lined with silk
And smooth as any lily,
And what he wore for underwear
Was pink and lacy-frilly.

I suppose by now you're thinking
Bronco Bruce was a little queer,
The kind of man who acted like
A bull become a steer.

But you'd be wrong to think that way,
To call him a Nancy-Boy.
He could ride and rope with the best of us
And the whorehouse was his joy.

I recall the night we all rode in
To the town of Rattlesnake Bend.
It was a rough, tough frontier town,
Lawless from end to end.

Miss Kitty's was the best-run place,
A bar with East Coast class
Where a man could get his fill of rye
And a Grade-A piece of ass.

Well, in we rode, led by Bronco Bruce,
Directly to Kitty's place,
And pretty soon Bruce dazzled the crowd
With his elegance and grace.

He told tall tales and made quick jokes
Like Mark Twain at his best.
He sang and danced and did card tricks,
Pulling aces from his vest.

Now, back in a corner at a poker table
Mal Rooney sat with his gang,
A mean bunch like a pack of wolves,
Hairy and long of fang.

I could see Mal watching Bronco Bruce
With his walled and evil eyes--
Like a Kansas City undertaker
Measuring a coffin's size.

Well, the night wore on as all nights will
And the laughter it grew loud
Till suddenly a deep bass voice
Rose up and stilled the crowd.

"Hey, Sissy-Boy, I been watchin' you--"
The voice belonged to Mal,
"And I think that you oughta be known
From now on as Bronco Sal."

The men at Mal's table, to a man,
Laughed aloud at Mal's words.
I swear I heard them cackle like
A gaggle of carrion birds.

And how, you might ask, did Bronco
Respond to this nasty slur?
Well, like a gentleman, of course, he said,
"I beg your pardon, sir?"

Naturally his cultured tone of voice--
So mild, so softly spoken--
Enraged Mal Rooney like a mustang
In the midst of being broken.

"I said your name is Sally, Sissy-Boy.
You're nowhere near a man.
I suggest you waltz your fairy ass
Outa here as fast as you can."

"Ah," breathed Bruce with a sort of sigh,
"It's my manhood that you doubt?"
And before Mal could make a move
Bruce whipped his pistol out.

Now Bruce's piece was a giant .45,
The biggest Colt Arms could make,
And as fierce a man as Mal Rooney was,
I can say I saw him shake.

Then Bronco Bruce smiled and said softly,
After thinking matters through,
"I fear something must be settled, sir,
Between just me and you."

He gave his weapon a sideways waggle.
The crowd parted as crowds can.
"There are ladies present. We'll go outside
And settle things man to man."

And so Mal Rooney walked ahead,
Trying to look bold and brave.
Bronco Bruce followed him through the door,
Giving us all an airy wave.

A minute later the night was shattered
By the ka-pow! of one gun's roar.
Which one of the two was still alive,
Not a man in the bar was sure.

Then Bronco pushed open the swinging doors
And cried, "Resume the fun!"
Later he told me what had taken place:
"Kneel," he'd said, "and suck my gun."

He was joking, of course. He's only meant
To give the man a lesson or two.
He'd planned to teach some manners to Mal
Before the night was through.

But out from under Mal's flannel sleeve
There appeared a ten-inch knife.
"In self-defense, "Bruce said with a sigh,
"I took Mal Rooney's life."

Well, Bruce for all his carrying on
Had never killed before.
Mal's death began to eat at him
Like termites in a floor.

From that night on Bruce wasn't the same.
He hung his head and moped.
He went about his cowboy chores
Like a Chinaman opium-doped.

He became a pale ghost of himself,
Filled with remorse and pain.
It didn't surprise me that he quit
And took a New York train.

I lost track of him until one night
In a bar outside Tucson
I learned he'd opened at Fifth and Park
The Wild West Beauty Salon.

I hope clipping Society Dames
Makes Bronco rich as hell,
But I'm sure in his heart he misses
Currying Vanilla Nell.

Oh, cowboys, they are strange indeed,
Every one of them weird and queer,
But when it comes to oddity,
Bronco Bruce, he had no peer,

Kilmeresque
Oh, think how many Georgia pines
(Each felled by a strong pine-feller)
Must go into the pulping mill
To make just one best-seller.

Ah, Georgia trees that I drive past,
Rest easy in your piney selves:
No book that I will ever write
Will burden Border's shelves.

Yukontinence
Eskimo boys are hunting seals,
I am sure, this very night,
While Eskimo girls lie alone
By igloo firelight.

I'd like to rise up like a wraith
Before them on the floes
To tell them, "Leave the seals alone.
Go home and rub some nose."

But each Eskimo boy would laugh
And wave his hunting knife.
"You're up this late, writing us in verse?
Where's that leave your wife?"

So let me unwrite this Eskimo piece
And leave it in my head.
Good night, good night, my Arctic friends,
I think I'll go to bed.

Novus Ordo Seclorum
In the supermarket on the way
To where the beer's kept cold
I always pass the shining aisle
Where greeting cards are sold.

Monthly under fluorescent lamps
I can sense the seasons pass,
From New Year's Day to the one
Once known as Christ, His Mass.

I see Valentine's red martyred heart
Aflame with amorous fire,
Followed soon by Patrick's shamrock
Detached from emerald Eire.

Then Spring brings Easter's mixing of
Rabbits and Arising
(While stubborn Jews keep another feast,
Likewise of God's devising).

Then Mother's Day and Father's--
A long lull before the Fall
When witching Halloween arrives
And Thanksgiving stuffs us all.

Each year yields a new selection
Of sentiment and rhyme.
And me? I'll just keep on buying beer
And let Hallmark mark the time.