A poem about a cowboy and parenting.

This week has been crazy-busy, so I’m posting an older poem, opus 89 from my first unpublished collection. Probably written sometime around 2003.

Volume 1 Opus 89

A cowboy had a thousand shots
  Inside his silver pistol.
And since the number seemed like lots
  He fired some in Bristol.
He had a fight in Kansas, too,
  And fired several volleys;
In Oregon he loosed a few
  When arguing in trolleys.
In time he fired left and right
  With nary much discretion
With bullets shot he won in fights
  And punished each transgression.
One fateful day upon a whim
  He pulled the well-worn trigger,
But not a shot was left to him
  To slay his foe much bigger.

Now listen here, my sprightly lad,
  This tale has a moral,
And if you heed it you’ll be glad
  And never have to quarrel.
Suppose your son decides his hair
  Should be a nasty mullet.
To make him cut it may be fair,
  But uses up a bullet.
And then one day, who knows how soon,
  You’ll find your words are hollow
And when he wants to be a goon
  His foolish dreams he’ll follow
So give him reign to stupid be
  When it’s a little matter
That later you may keep him free
  With words that aren’t mere patter