Stardust Motel in Vegas !!!

Roper The Cowdog
The worlds best lookin cow dog...(Blue Heeler)...I fell into love with a beagle, followed her for three days...that mean ole cowboy took me to the doctor and took away my pride and joy...at least I did have that 8 second ride...

like a good cowboy, I put on my new Tony Lamas and then I hit the road, left her at the motel with a note, and a trophy buckle I bought from a pawn shop in Los Wages, (this she does not need to know) she was sound asleep in her dreams, and just did not want to awake her.

heard it at the VA...

Jamb'alaya Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
had many visitors, most second cousins,
who came and smoke wildwood flowers,
then ate Bertrands gumbo,
way past the midnight hour,
she dressed in style, went hog wild,
took their money, call them "honey",
then in the morning ran her traps,
and poled her Piroque,down the Atachafayla.

Jamb'laya Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
had many visitors, most second cousins,
on the front porch, she did dance,
then layed in bed,
she sucked dem heads, by the hour,
she dressed in style, went hog wild,
she took their money, called them "honey",
she got big and round,
loved going to town,
and fais do do way past the midnight hour
in the morning ran her traps,
and poled her Piroque,down The Atachafayla.


Jamb'laya Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
dressed in style,went hog wild,
they gave her money,callin them honey,
them second cousins,to weak to walk,
couldn't even talk would leave her shack,
having fais do do, past the midnight hour.

Jamb,alaya, Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
had many visitors, most second cousins,
they came and smoked her wildwood flower,
then ate Bertrands gumbo,
and made love by the hour,
she dressed in style, went hog wild,
took their money, call them "honey",
she got big and round,
ran her traps before going to town,
and poled her Piroque,down The Atachafayla.

Lisa of the Mustang

The screendoor slammed,
she gave her "mother",
her parting words,
I'm tired of these geldings,
I leaving to where,
buckaroos walk amid the sage,
and wild stallions stories are told,
its time that I depart,
having a life of my own,
away from these geldings,
to be among the sage and stallions,
it is there where I want to roam.

The road took her eastward,
thumbing truckers for a short ride,
traveling towards Winnemucca,
having heard stories,
in the trade of wild stallions,
and buckaroos among the sage,
there by the side of the road,
two long days of bad rides,
some were near suicide,
she was left at Junction.


Outside the Junction stop,
time comes to roll the dice,
with a toss in the desert sand,
is it to be Snake eyes,
or a combo pair,
choices of Elko or Los Wages,
with no winnings or even a spare,
snake eyes rolled,
and thus her road to Elko.

Knowing not what awaited her there,
amid the wild stallions,
and buckaroos who sat and composed,
these would be better she thought,
than the "geldings" she has known,
Yes, the money was good,
but with the 30 hits you,
its time for a secure roll,
and snake eyes ensured Elko.

Thumbing past Carlin,
and the gold mine in sight,
a long walk down Idaho Street,
Passing Stockmans and other places,
which she never knew,
on to the convention center,
this is where she was told to go,
and what a welcome she had,
as she walked in the door.

They invited her on the stage,
and all gathered around,
with intense ears,
the sage buckaroos who composed,
her stories were quickly told,
of her life with the geldings,
for now she was now on the road.

The road from Mustang,
was a difficult road to take,
and making it to Elko,
walking down Idaho street,
she realize that this venture,
was not a fatal mistake,
becoming a endured legend,
around campfire light all aglow,
her stories are nightly told,
with red embers and guitars,
of Lisa of the Mustang,
and her life on the road.

To Honor The Hertiage

To honor the ancestory,
of our great Scottish kin,
Jacob Neely,
who stood tall,
with precision aim,
firing his musket,
and REDCOATS fell,
most proud to have his
rebel-celtic-blood,
run true in these veins.

Come on, my dear laddies and lassies,
take down you bodram,
and rosen up your bow,
pack up your pipes,
grab your kilt,
for we shall gather round,
in this piney woods moonlight,
dancing our jig,
our celebration will last,
until mornings early light.

Without those brave hearts,
we would not have
the liberty that we enjoy today...
To Honor...To Praise...

dar marker...Neely, Jacob -- b. 1758. d. 15 July 1845, age 87. Grave located in Liberty Baptist church, 6 miles east on Highway 80, Jackson, Rankin County, Mississippi. Marked: 29 March 1953 -- Magnolia State Chapter

THE ORGIN OF THE COOLEY/COCHRAN WAR

Asa Cochran was famous fur stump break'n Cooley's ole heifer and den her turn around and with de underside of her tongue lick dee Roger pistole....sand paper blues...dats where the ya-who came frum...ya-who!!! ya-who!! Roger he did dance thru de pines with de knees a knock'n...ya-who!! ya-who!! De ole long horn bull en de woods saw him en came'a chargin; for he be a mess'n with his heifers, as well all de neighbors within ten miles would hear, and know that de Cochran kid had been stumpin again...

Ezra Cochran ran sheep...and de Cooley's in revenge would put de Cochran's sheep at pleasure, all eight of de Cooley's boys wore tall mud boots, and de feet fit fine...thus starting der war of de Cochran's en Cooley's!!! Sheep now all say cool ley, cool ley as dey drive past...en de bull he ghot big ole Cochran oysters up on his horns....they just swing as he runs about de pasture..

Lots of Cooley and Cochran blood runs thru Beauregard Parish, the flip side of Newton County Tejas......a very agricultural parish, lots of horses .and moo cows... I met a man over a year ago, at a old filling station near Kirbyville Texas who was telling me of battles the Cochran’s had with their sheep...

Oh man (Senator) Hennigan ran sheep when I was a kid...open range...lots of cotton farmers dogs got poisoned...I wrote a piece inspired by a song by Don Edwards...about the last red wolf...I have memories at school where Hennigan’s hired hands brought a red wolf in, and threw it in front of us kids, to show us the evil thing...

From a E that I sent to a friend from the Elko Crowd.

An Ode to John B.

In life there are rules,
Some simply are not for scorn,
For my eyes encounter a lost sight,
As I looked over my morning coffee,
And saw a vision of the past,
It was thou that Black Elk had spoke,
Giving me this vision to see,
One that truly separates the bulls,
From those that stands so content,
Grazing in green pastures,
With the prize heifer,
And having no earthly ability,
To distinguish what is about,
For their production quotient,
Was taken when they were quite young.

They, without genetics,
To be a producer,
Stand in absolute contentment,
As the prize bull, strolls by the fence,
Throwing his head back,
And nostrils flared,
Looking over his choices,
And lavishing in that scent,
That permeates the air,
He, truly is a bull of the woods,
Sets reading his times journal,
Or whatever presses his glasses declares,
Over a stronger brew.

Upon his dome of years spent,
Sets a crown with reminders of,
Some former president,
Who wandered from some far Texas town,
At a time when hats were most common worn,
Declaring the status of the wearer,
That they were bulls, bulls of the woods.

Across the fence, the yearling so fresh,
Graze with that absence of instincts,
Contented to be just steers,
There, grazing in pastures of plenty,
Unable to grasp the scent,
Of that heifer in need of attending,
As thus has come the condition,
As the bulls have vanished,
And the young yearling scent are spent,
With the indifference of these steers,
Grazing in pasture’s of plenty.

Louisiana had a governor,
The last one spent, wearing a crown,
For they found him running with a Blaze,
A woman of most beauty,
Whose fame was of dance and disrobing,
And he, whose bedside manners,
With boots and spurs intact,
Lay down upon that feather bed.

Through the darkness of night,
The ride was of a blaze,
Politicians became disgraced,
Of this governors case,
Disbarred him and history,
Has left us with simpletons,
To regulate our great state.

Yes, I was a youngster once,
And walked away from the Ranch,
With a cover, not realizing it was,
My fathers, who years later,
Remarked, that I had departed,
And left his head uncovered,
For this was his “John B”,
This had graced my head.

Some years earlier,
His brother, our Uncle Larry,
Chided his sons,
For sitting on his “panama”,
Reducing it to a straw pancake,
There upon his back seat,
As we rode into town in his sedan.

We knowing not what “panama meant’,
For it aided a bull of the woods,
To recognized a heifers scent,
You can take my blue suede’s,
But that which covers my head,
Blocked to redirect the rain,
And restricts where the sun hits my face,
This you can never take,
For there are those of us,
Who do graze by that fence,
In search of that scent.

We, like that bull of the woods,
Who’s morning brew,
Was as dark as the night,
Wearing that crown of glory,
From morning to night,
And such be the ode,
To John B,
Whose glory is ours,
And for it, we will fight.

Kilts to Quirts

From Glasow to Riodosa,
we all have traveled this land,
wearing a kilt of the finest wool,
to show the honor of our clan,
made by honest Scottish hands.

As travelers our courses,
have often changed,
arriving by schooners,
disembarking on rocky shores,
of this majestic land,
our shoe leather had already worn thin,
determined to make it,
this was the challenge at hand.

Westward, on wagons we traveled,
our mere possessions,
hung aside the wagons,
as we trod in ruts,
that the wheels did churn,
to make for a new life,
on unseen plains,
in this distant land.

We travelers determined to find,
far from Scotlands highlands,
plains we never knew,
and with our oats to spread,
on rich soil,
with our earth worn hands.

Upon steeds hand tamed,
taught to respond,
with a Glasow glance,
upon our saddle we sat,
and with handmade quirt in hand,
racing through golden fields,
of oats and barley waves.

High above a falcon soars,
and with most keen eyes,
sees what it adores,
while we among the golden waves,
chase a young stray calf,
in this land forever free,
oh liberty, we do cherish thee.