|Share page||Visit Us On FB|
Ranch and Range
"Jes' let me tell you of a man—
None beat his nerve, none ever can— ^j
Won't give his name, 'cause he would kick; )
But that won't stop me on this trick.
Call him Dakota, jes' fer fun,
You'll rope the idee when I'm done:
Dakota, small an' sort o' sad,
An' seems to me the feller had
Girl-eyes an' freckles an' a smile
That kept you thinkin' all the while
That any little kid might tie
To him, an' that he'd rather die,
Afore he'd let one he'pless know
Of pain or harm—you bet, that's so.
No bad man 'bout Dakota, tho',
I can't jes' say he was so slow
In any sort or kind of fight,
Except his lips got thin an' white,
An' after it was done he'd say:
'I'm sorry, boys,' an' walk away.
An' it's a fact that right today,
Dakota, good an' kind an' gray,
Don't have a word to say to men,
When on the corner, now an' then,
Some paper man hogties him fast,
To tell the world about his past.
"An' that's the game, real western men Be the same now as they was then; Don't wear long hair nor buckskin things, Don't like the bluff that allers strings The paper ducks an' never's stint