Phil LeNoir

From “Western Poems”

THE OUTLAW stands with blindfold eyes,

His feet set wide apart;

His coal-black hide gleams in the sun—

Thar’s killin’ in his heart.

A puncher squats upon his heels,

His saddle at his side;

He’s sizin’ up Ol’ Dynamite,

That he is booked to ride.

The cowboy rises, lifts his saddle—

A little tune he’s hummin’;

Walks cat-like all around the hoss—

“Hold him, boys, I’m comin’!”

Now up above the outlaw’s back

He lifts the load o’ leather;

Then care-ful-lee he lets it down,

Like the droppin’ of a feather.

Ol’ Dynamite he stands stock-still,

Plumb like a gentled pony.

A leap, a yell! an’ Buck’s all set—

“On with the cer-e-mo-nee!”

The snubbers rip the blindfold off,

The punchers yip and yell.

Ol’ Dynamite gives one grand snort,

Then starts his little Hell.

He plunges forward on his feet,

His hind heels in the air.

Then up an’ down he bucks an’ backs

Like a loco rockin’ chair.

But now he stops—he spins around—

He bawls, he bites, he kicks!

He rares straight up into the air,

Then down on two steel sticks.

But look! “My Gawd!” the crowd screams out,

“He’s boltin’ for the stand!”

Then just as quick he jerks up short—

Thar’s Buck a-stickin’ grand.

Buck leaps to earth, lifts his hat,

Bows to the whirl of cheers—

Then turning slides his saddle off,

An’ quickly disappears.