cowboypoetrypress

This isn’t quite Cowboy Poetry, but it’s sure entertaining to say the least. We’ve just put out our III Unbridled anthology, and submissions are opened up again for the 2018 season, so follow Robert Martin’s lead, get to writing…

Herbert The Jock

Poor little Billy with no friends at all,
Only Herbert his boa constrictor.
Football was his game,
But nobody to play with.

“Herbert, wanna play some football?”
Said Billy.
Herbert couldn’t talk because he’s a snake.
Twenty years it took to
Teach him how to tackle,
Wrapping his body around Billy’s legs.

So out in the yard they went one day.
Billy got the ball and ran.
Herbert wrapped his body around
And down went Billy on the twenty yard line.
From that day on, Herbert became a jock.

Then it was time to go on defense.
Herbert got the ball and
Slithered in for a touchdown.
“Hey, that’s no fair.
I can’t tackle you.
You don’t have any legs,” said Billy.

Moral of the story:
When thou approach’th the time
To teach something to play football,
Teach a dog, cat, kangaroo, hippopotamus,
Orangutan, elephant, mouse,
Dinosaur, or a wife.
They all have legs.
Then you can tackle one of them.
Thou must abide by the rules:
Offense and defense.

Automatic Button Boy

Fingers, buttons, thoughts, words
Two hundred miles an hour
A wizard, intellect, playful spirit
Flying around the keyboard
Just a stroll in the park
A quick hop and a jump
A hundred hours in five minutes
Racing a pack of Cheetahs
A smooth ride in a Rolls Royce
Just a boy, a seasoned veteran
A master without a master
A pianist with no piano lessons
A humble giant of technology
A master of time and space
Automatic fingers in the right places
A house without a wall
A guru with no patience
A sprinter speeding upward
Reaching the summit without a map
A pilot landing on a star
Goes this little baby boy
Flying into cyberspace
At the speed of sound
With his little automatic fingers
Finding the right places
On his casual computer
With too many buttons on it
For us old geezers to find.

Please little boy.
Slow down and
Show us how you do it.
Start at ground zero, PLEASE!

Beat That Friggin’ Drum

Beat the hell out of that drum,
You music beast with the big sticks.
Send that friggin’ band out into space.
Show them how powerful you are.
Don’t give a damn if you
Come in at the wrong place.
Make a new one for them.
Forget those friggin’ rudiments,
Those chains that bind your spirit.

You are the bomb, the beast,
The steady rhythm master,
The dancer with the
Airy feet and heavy fingers,
The poet with a metal heart,
The despot of swing,
The man with no name,
The island in the mist,
The thunder in the sky,
The lightening in the spirit,
The courier from hell,
The devil with a song,
The minstrel without a care,
The religion without a church,
The private universe,
The alien, the planet,
The sky, the all.
So go out and beat the
Hell out of that friggin’ drum.

Jolly Ole’ Cannibals

Yummy yum yum
For the tummy tum tum
Fat boys and girls
And a bottle of rum

Arms and feet with
Salt and pepper
Yummy yum yum
For the tummy tum tum

Don’t come to dinner
‘Cause you might be dinner
Come after dinner
And have lottsa fun

Cracking jokes and
Beatin’ that drum
Jolly ole’ cannibals
They’re so much fun

Yummy yum yum
For the tummy tum tum
Yummy yum yum
For the tummy tum tum

Robert Martin’s writing has appeared in: Mature Years, Alive Now, Wilderness House Literary Journal, Long Story Short, Poets’ Espresso, among others. He’s won two “Faith And Hope” awards, and published two chapbooks. I am also a pianist and the organist at First UMC of Wind Gap, PA. His works have been chapbooks are: In Reverence To Life – and – A Sage’s Diary (published by In His Steps Publishers)  Robert also writes the speeches for the mayor of Wind Gap.