COWBOY POETRY: My Coffee Blend

Bryce Angell is a cowboy poet. Angell was raised on a farm/ranch in the St. Anthony, Idaho area with approximately 75 head of horses. Horses remain an important part of Angell's life. Angell shares his poetry with Cache Valley Daily every Friday.

The cold night air is penetrating through my sleeping bag.  And Mother Nature’s calling.  She’s become a ruthless nag.

When climbing out of bed at home, I feel the nice warm floor.  But out here in the Selway, going pee is quite a chore.

So I roll out of my sleeping bag.  Our tent is freezing cold.  Should I start a fire?   No!  Better help my bladder to unload?

I’ll slip out through the tent fly.  Dang it!  Someone tied a knot!  I’ve gotta get this open!  Might just use the coffee pot!

So, on the floor or coffee pot, the men will never know.  Now, I’ve dang near filled the coffee pot, and not a bit too slow.

I open my Old Timer knife and cut the tent fly strap.  I hope that no one notices. I’m sure they’d give me crap.

I’m far enough from camp, and now I toss my coffee blend.  But throwing smack against the wind, I wouldn’t recommend.

I’m plastered with the coffee grounds.  It looks like I’ll be caught.  Then I hear Old Mose, the cook, give way, “Who’s got the coffee pot?”

I hand Old Mose the coffee pot but didn’t rinse it out.  “Don’t worry son,” Old Mose replied, “It’ll make the coffee stout.”

So Mose is making coffee.  I’ll leave well enough alone.  ‘Cuz no one seems to notice my coffee blend cologne.

At breakfast time our guide remarks, “The coffee’s good today.  It doesn’t taste so bitter, maybe salty in a way.”

I choke on my potatoes and all turn my way to see.  But I don’t believe I’ll tell a soul.  For sure, they’d turn on me.

And tonight, when Mother Nature calls, I’ll hop down off my cot and hope the tent door’s passable.  If not, the coffee pot?

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