COWBOY POETRY: I Hate Willows

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.

I grabbed my irrigation boots and set out for the creek. But I couldn’t find the
water ‘cuz the willows were too thick.

I’d never seen so many shrubs with bark so green and slick. Enough for a million
naughty boys to cut their whipping stick.

At first, I thought of burning but I’d burn the forest down. They’d throw me in the
slammer. Call me “Willow Pyro Clown.”

I set my mind to thinking. It’s a dangerous thing to do. My wife said, “Call the
county agent. He will see it through.”

I have to give her credit. She has witnessed all my schemes. ‘Cuz half the time
my good intentions come from boyish dreams.

I phoned the county agent. Didn’t hear a word he said. My brain contrived a fool
proof plan, just stuck there in my head.

Our Massey 1190 was my workhorse master plan. I’d pull the clumps of willows.
Didn’t need no middleman.

So, I rummaged through the tool shed, found a cable long enough. Then looped it
‘round the willows. Thought, “This job won’t be that tough.”

I chained the cable to the tractor. Now it’s do or die. Then, hopped up on my
Massey, promptly shifted into high.

It only took a second till I reached the cable end. When my thick head snapped to
forward, but my neck froze to a bend.

I wondered could this be another one of my mistakes. ‘Cuz my Massey tractor
slammed to stop. I hadn’t hit the brakes.

So my good wife asked, “You’ve stopped and left your foolproof plan alone? I
sighed then said, “Please get the county agent on the phone.”

Well, my neck brace fits me nicely, just a bit of minor pain. But my eyes are
seeing double. Must have jarred my nimble brain.

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