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.
