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The Manure Page

The page dealing with poems and other tidbits about and related to MANURE

Manure Happens!

 
	 
BON APPETITE ! by Roger Traweek
It was twilight on the Missouri breaks, and the boys were swappin’ tales, An’ drinkin’ cowboy coffee thet’d float a horseshoe nail. They’d been out gath’rin’ two-year-olds since before the sun came up. Slim sauntered to the fire and poured himself another cup, An’ then he stretched out on the ground with his head propped on his saddle And his conversation turned to other things than gath’rin’ cattle. He started out by holdin’ forth on the outlaws he had known, And braggin’ how he’d met ‘em all, and the boys began to groan, ‘Cuz fer sure he was the top hand when it came to droppin’ names, Like Butch Cassidy, an’ Billy the Kid, an’ Frank and Jesse James. But tonight he sure outdid himself when he made a casual mention Of how he’d met Pancho Villa, and thet got their full attention. ‘Slim, thet’s “windy”, Lefty said. “You know it just ain’t so Thet you knew ol’ Pancho Villa. Hell, he lived in Mexico.’ Slim never blinked an eye, an’ just cleared his throat and said, “Now you girls might not believe me, but it’s lucky I ain’t dead, ‘Cuz I had the dubious pleasure of starin’ down the bore Of them two pearl-handled six-guns thet ol’ Pancho always wore, An’ I lived to tell about it. Yep, I’m one of the lucky few, An’ I’ll tell you how it happened, boys; I swear this yarn is true.” “I was way out on the West Pecos, playin’ nursemaid to some pairs, Ridin’ for the YT for pocket change and my three squares. I’d been out on the range by then two months or maybe three, An’ I was gettin’ mighty lonely for some human company. When they fin’ly sent this ‘puncher out to spell me for awhile, After I showed him where them Longhorns were, I tossed him a farewell smile An’ headed towards the Rio Grande, a little south of Socorro, An’ I figgered thet with any luck I’d be in Mexico tomorrow. I’d heard of a cantina there, full of killers, thieves, and cheaters, Where a man could wet his whistle and dance with ‘señor-eeters’. I’d been out on the range so long my sperits were sorter down, An’ I had a need to cut ‘er loose and tree the whole dam’ town! Well, I hit thet big ol’ river, an’ I stopped just long enough To warsh my neck and comb my hair, ‘cuz I looked pretty rough, An’ then I hit the road again through the mesquite and the sage, ‘Til I come a-ridin’ on this feller who looked to be about my age. He rode a big white stud horse, all decked out with silver trimmin’s, An’ when he saw me, he puckered up like he’d been suckin’ lemons. His eyes grew narrow and an evil-lookin’ sneer was on his lips, An’ he pulled those shiny 45’s a-hangin’ from his hips. ‘Get down, gringo, and drop your gun,’ this ornery jasper said; It ‘peared to me to make good sense, or else get filled with lead. So I dropped my gun and holster in some weeds beside the road, An’ then the stranger chuckled when his big horse dropped a load Of steamin’ fresh roadapples in a pile in front of me, He said, ‘Señor, now pick one up, and tell me if you see Any reason not to eat it,’ an’ he cocked his pistolos then, Well, he sure had the drop on me, so I gave him a sickly grin, And bent down an’ picked a little one and held it to the light. He said, ‘Señor, that’s good, now if you would…take a little bite?’ I could see he wasn’t foolin’, an’ those pistolos were so big, I jus’ plugged my nose and closed my eyes and grunted like a pig An’ bit off a chunk and swallered hard an’ stared right back at him. He said, ‘I’m Pancho Villa. What’s your name?’ I croaked back, ‘Slim.’ He must have thought me a funny sight, an’ I surely can’t deny It was sorter like he was a spider and I was a blue-tailed fly. An’ then he started laughin’, an’ a tear rolled down his cheek. An’ thet man whooped and snorted, an’ carried on ‘til he was weak! He slapped his leg and laughed so hard he fin’ly lost his grip An’ danged if from his fingers those pistolos didn’t slip. Well, I saw my chance and took it, an’ I had ‘em in a flash, An’ I aimed them straight at his black heart and was about to cool his hash, When I saw a chance to have some fun before I lit out for town; “Mr. Pancho, the boot’s on the other foot,” I said, ‘Now, you get down And pick yourself some “apples”, Oh, there’s plenty that’ll do, And while you’re at it, amigo, why’nt you make it at least two!’ So Pancho got down from his horse, eyed the pile an’ looked away, But I waved those big pistolos, an’ said, ‘I ain’t got all day! An’ you’d best get right to it, before I lose my temper bad.’ Well, I ’spect that just like me, he weighed the choices thet he had An’ he kicked the pile until he found some small enough to eat An’ picked them up, an’ I grinned at him an’ said, ‘Bon Appetité.’ He knew his game was up now, an’ he took a big, deep breath And he gobbled them derned apples down like he was starved to death! There was silence ‘round the campfire, an’ no one said a word, All the boys were ruminatin’ over this story thet they’d heard. Slim grinned and looked around him, an’ thet’s when he yanked their tether. “Did I know Pancho Villa, pards? Hell, we had lunch together!” Roger L. Traweek © February 18, 2002

 

		ODE TO A ROAD APPLE
			    by Thea Gavin
Here, without using chemicals, I play the hand that nature deals- my garden's where an earthworm feels secure. Sky high corn, and these tomatoes dwarf their tough-skinned tasteless kin, those pathetic mutants at the grocery store.
If I shared my little secret it might spoil your will to eat, yet also give you food for thought if you're unsure. I use fertilizer so fine from the south end of my equine friends in-stalled outside the city: horse manure.
Gardener's gold, I load and pile it mix it, turn it, wait and while it cooks I test it every smelly couple days: plunge my hand into the steaming reeking middle, what's it needing... air? or water? "One more week," the odor says.
Manue compost on the side as a snug blanket, makes like midas: everything it touches turns to veggie gold. Green bean vines devour their trellis, rabid zucchini overwhelm us - that stuff seems to make them giddy and quite bold.
So try this healthy spinach sample courtesy of horses' ample capacity for pelletizing hay. And if it messes up your thinking to be eating what was stinking manure, think how you might recycle too some day.

Thea Gavin 11/27/00

 


           

HELL'S THREE DOORS

by Hilma (Volcano) Volk
Nobody cried when the outlaw died When the hangman's platform fell. It was no surprise to that bad man's eyes That he met the Devil in Hell.
The Devil bowed as he spoke aloud, "Welcome to your eternity. Nobody tells, but we have three Hells - Behind doors numbered one, two and three.
"You get to choose which way you lose. In fact I'll even let you see Behind each door, just what's in store Behind doors numbered one, two and three."
The man thought it kind as he looked to find What lay behind door number one. Twas a long corridor with spikes on the floor. Now he wished his foul deeds were undone.
Each sinner, now dead, stood on his head Wailing and moaning in pain The outlaw shuddered, the words he stuttered, "Those sp-spikes won't pa-pierce my brain."
Behind door number two was a similar view, But a thicket of thorns lined the floor The people wailed. On their heads they flailed. The outlaw quickly shut the door.
No cries were heard as he opened the third. This hall was filled with manure. The people were stuck to their necks in muck, But they were drinking coffee galore.
The outlaw thought, 'Well, I'd get used to the smell, And at least I'd get to drink coffee.' "This one it will be, I pick door number three." The Devil danced as he sang off key.
With a hideous grin he pushed him in. And slammed the door with a clang. The man had just sup from his first cup When this horrible siren rang.
The cups disappeared, the demons sneered, And with a rasp that could tear ears to shreds A voice boomed over, "Coffee break's over, All of you get back on your heads."
--- (Not from the book)

If Life Made Sense
MEN
Would
Ride
Sidesaddle


 

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"THE BOSS"

by Michael S. Robinson ©1998

I'm not a guy who's bossed around like cabbies or a doorman. The ranch hands all look up to me because I am the foreman.

So when I'm diggin' fencepost holes and one puts up a fight, I simply change its attitude by usin' dynamite..

And, for unruly horses, I've come up with an invention: I brandish my ol' forty-five, and that gets their attention..

And so, I've grown accustomed to a place of leadership. I've learned to say it like it is, and shoot straight from the hip..

But when I order cows to stop those piles that they're makin', they're not the least bit scared of me--- not tremblin' or a shakin'....

I've had to grin and bear it, 'cause I can't control their crappin's. So accept what I can't change: The fact, manure just happens!.

And so, I rarely bellyache, 'cause ranchin' is my life. (I only gripe for Debra's sake,. 'cause she's my darlin' wife.).

Why, every time she goes outside, them cow pies mess her shoes.. It's been a woe she can't abide;. She's took to drinkin' booze.

. I've tried to figure out a way to keep those cow pies in. My ingenuity don't pay; My temper's growin' thin..

I had a brainstorm, tried it out. It didn't do the trick. Them diapers, slung and tied about, were gone with that first kick..

I rigged some propane heaters up to gasify that stuff. Now, that worked purdy well, although the end-result was rough....

The government complained, 'cause planes, that flew through that brown smoke, got ruined by them messy stains--- which grossed the travelin' folk..

I tried to get my cows to feed on mints and cotton candy, and asked them, when they felt the need, to use the potty handy..

But different foods were not the fix; It made them cow pies sticky. And, though our crapper's fine for hicks, those cows were too darned picky!.

Well, Debra tired of my flops, and I was at a loss. (A cow pie falls just where it plops, 'cause cows ain't got no boss.).

Our wise friend, Rex, advised us, "Time to wipe away the frown! Just thank the Lord beef price is up, and that the chips are down!" .



MANURE

by Mark Seeley ©1995

I hope there's manure in Heaven I know that sounds a bit strange But some floks might agree with me If I'm given the chance to explain

Now by outward appearance, manure Is a smelly goo, no doubt. But think about what went into that cow Before that manure came out

That cow might have grazed in a pasture Filled with clover and grass green and lush And that sweet smelling pasture on which that cow dined Was transformed to this foul smelling mush.

Or maybe she dined with a range herd On a wide open prairie somewhere Making meals of scattered bunchgrass And leaving a pile here and there.

that cow might have grazed in the mountains Beneath pine trees that whisper and sigh And the grass and wildflowers from meadows Are contained in that cow's special pie.

So I hope theres manure in Heaven Cause that means there'll be cows when we die And pastures and prairies and meadows Beneath mountains that reach toward the sky.


Contact Mark Seeley at: Box 154 Chester, Idaho 83421 (208) 624-7704


   

POLLUTION SOLUTION

By (Barbed Wire) Ben Aitken.

Old Noah was the good old boy, who built the mighty Ark Two by two he drove 'em in, finished loadin after dark He herded all theose animals and pennen em in that boat For forty days he shoveled shit, to keep that boat afloat.

He put it all in plastic bags so as not to pollute the Ark Then quietly threw it overboard -- done that after dark When the waters had abated and the sun came out once more Bags of awful stinkin stuff still wash up on the East Coast shore.

I'm sure there was an awful smell, that lingered in that pen Just when old Noah got it shoveled out, that bull did it again And yes he had to pitch some hay to build those mighty stacks Them ornery critters have got to eat, to fill the plastic sacks.

So old Noah preserved all life - He saved both man and beast Yes we eat some and others eat others - it's famine of it's feast And each and every thing he saved - in some way is to blame This once washed earth is bound to soil, it can't be kepth the same.

Now the moral of this story is - yes - all life causes pollution So let's not drown the whole damn world - - - - - - - - - - - WITH SOME BUREAUCRATICAL SOLUTION


MANURE EXPERT
By Ben McKenzie

I was riding the Cyber Range on my old hoss Clicker,
when I saw a sign that said Manure Happens, then it just gets thicker!
Now if your full of fertilizer you could win a bumper sticker. I
thought to myself I could win one of those for sure.
They aint hardly nothing I don't know about Manure!
I've stepped in it and around it. I've shoveled it and spread it.
I've inspected it hot and steamy, well now I've gone and said it!
Theres a method to this madness if you will bear with me a while,
as to how I became an expert on a fresh cow pile.
It was all because of money and quite against my will
that I started dogging heifers up and down the field.
You should have seen the look of wonder on the other Waddies face,
as I dissected Cowpies till you couldn't see a trace.
Then my face would fill with anguish and a tear would cloud my eye
as I wandered of searching for a fresh Cowpie.
Although they couldn't guess my reasons, on one thing they could concur.
I was undoubtedly an Expert when the subject was Manure!
I'll let you in on the secret to the cause of all my ills.
One of them heifers had swallowed ten, One Hundred Dollar Bills!
How did I know they done it? There was no one else around,
when I found my wallet, lying open on the ground.
So I jumped to a conclusion, and the wrong one of course!
It turned out the culprit was my Dad-blamed horse!
So happy was the morning while shoveling out his stall,
I came across my boodle, money clip and all.
It was a little frayed in passing but I'd finally found my cure,
and became a bonafide Expert, when the subject is Manure!

By Ben McKenzie


On the back of a horse trailer that I saw in Buckley, WA.-

Caution Stay Back - Poo Poo May Blur Your Vision

Kevin Johnson 9615 232 St. East Graham, WA. 98338


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