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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) 

            
"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!" .