REED’S FOLLY

Morgan’s Gulch was hot and dry
one September afternoon,
but there was a spot that wasn’t dry
and Reed would find it soon.

He and Jeff were clearing trails
with chain saw, rope and horse
They’d worked real hard and were quite tired
and had set a home-ward course.

Now, Reed was riding Pistol,
a horse of some renowned,
for helping many wranglers
find their way down to the ground.

So when they came to one last log
with Pistol in the lead.
Reed got out his trusty rope
and dallied up his steed.

They pulled that log a little ways,
his horse in a bad mood.
He strained and grumped and hopped and jumped,
and finally came unglued

Horse and rider left the trail
still pulling that big log
and before ol’ Reed could gain control
they landed in a bog.

Now bogs are soft and squishy
with mud and other goop
almost as bad as landing
in a lake of liquid poop.

The bog reached out and grabbed them both
with satanic hands of slop
with Pistol sinking past his knees
but Reed was not on top.

They both were mired in mud and muck
like flies stuck on fly paper.
It was the very ultimate -
the Devil’s finest caper.

They finally both escaped the goo
with mud up to their eyes.
Looking very much the same as
Two large and fresh cow pies.

Now Reed is not a cursing man
at least he’s never been.
And to his credit - simply said,
“I won’t try that again.”

1996

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