Cowboy poetry- "Punchin' Dough" and "Boomer Johnson" by Henry Herbert Knibbs.

<body> <p> </p> <embed SRC="poorboyblues.mid" loop="0" autostart="true" align="right" width="5" height="3"> <p align="center"> <img border="0" src="chuckwagon.jpg" width="418" height="446" align="top"><font size="5" face="Hobo"><br> <br> </font><b><font face="Times New Roman"> </font><font face="Arial" size="5">PUNCHIN' DOUGH</font><font face="Times New Roman"><br> </font></b><font face="Arial">by Henry Herbert Knibbs</font></p> <p align="center"> <font face="Arial">Come, all you young waddies, I’ll sing you a song:<br> Stand back from the wagon - stay where you belong;<br> I’ve heard you observin’ I’m fussy and slow,<br> While you’re punchin’ cattle and I’m punchin’ dough.<br> <br> Now I reckon your stomach would grow to your back,<br> If it wa’n’t for the cook keeps fillin’ the slack:<br> With the beans in the box and the pork in the tub,<br> I’m a wonderin’, now, who would fill you with grub?<br> <br> You think you’re right handy with gun and with rope,<br> But I’ve noticed you’re bashful when usin’ the soap:<br> When you’re rollin’ your Bull for your brown cigarette,<br> I been rollin’ dough for the biscuits you et.<br> <br> When you’re cutting’ stock, then I’m cutting’ steak:<br> When you’re wrangling’ horses, I’m wrangling’ cake:<br> When you’re hazing’ the dogies and battin’ your eyes,<br> I’m hazing’ dried apples that aim to be pies.<br> <br> You brag about shootin’ up windows and lights,<br> But try shooting biscuits for twelve appetites:<br> When you crawl from your roll and the ground it is froze,<br> Then who biles the coffee that thaws out your nose?<br> <br> In the old days the punchers took just what they got:<br> It was sowbelly, beans and the old coffee-pot:<br> But now you come howlin’ for pie and for cake,<br> then you cuss at the cook for a good bellyache<br> <br> You say that I’m old, with my feet on the skids;<br> Well, I’m telling’ you now that you’re nothing’ but kids:<br> If you reckon your mounts are some snaky and raw,<br> Just try ridin’ herd on a stove that won’t draw.<br> <br> When you look at my apron, you’re reading’ my brand,<br> Four X, which is sign for the best in the land:<br> On bottle or sack it sure stands for good luck,<br> So - line up, you waddies, and wrangle your chuck.<br> <br> No use of your snortin’ and fightin’ your head:<br> If you like it with chili, just eat what I said;<br> For I aim to be boss of this end of the show,<br> While you’re punchin cattle and I’m punchin’ dough</font></p> <p align="center"> <img border="0" src="skulline.gif" width="468" height="58"></p> <p align="center"> <font size="5" face="Hobo">BOOMER JOHNSON</font><font face="Arial" size="5"><br> </font> <b> <img border="0" src="jakewink.gif" width="71" height="94"><br> </b><font face="Arial">Now Mr. Boomer Johnson was a gettin' old in spots,<br> But you don't expect a bad man to go wrastlin' pans and pots;<br> But he'd done his share of killin' and his draw was gettin' slow,<br> So he quits a-punchin' cattle and he takes to punchin' dough.<b><br> <br> </b>Our foreman up and hires him, figurin' age had rode him tame,<br> But a snake don't get no sweeter just by changin' of its name.<br> Well, Old Boomer knowed his business - he could cook to make you smile,<br> But say, he wrangled fodder in a most peculiar style.<br> <br> He never used no matches - left 'em layin' on the shelf,<br> Just some kerosene and cussin' and the kindlin' lit itself.<br> And, pardner, I'm allowin' it would give a man a jolt<br> To see him stir frijoles with the barrel of his Colt.<br> <br> Now killin' folks and cookin' ain't so awful far apart,<br> That musta been why Boomer kept a-practicin' his art;<br> With the front sight of his pistol he would cut a pie-lid slick,<br> And he'd crimp her with the muzzle for to make the edges stick.<br> <br> He built his doughnuts solid, and it sure would curl your hair<br> To see him plug a doughnut as he tossed it in the air.<br> He bored the holes plum center every time his pistol spoke,<br> Till the can was full of doughnuts and the shack was full of smoke.<br> <br> We-all was gettin' jumpy, but he couldn't understand <br> Why his shootin' made us nervous when his cookin' was so grand.<br> He kept right on performin', and it weren't no big surprise<br> When he took to markin' tombstones on the covers of his pies.<br> <br> They didn't taste no better and they didn't taste no worse,<br> But a-settin' at the table was like ridin' in a hearse;<br> You didn't do no talkin' and you took just what you got,<br> So we et till we was foundered just to keep from gettin' shot.<br> <br> When at breakfast one bright mornin', I was feelin' kind of low,<br> Old Boomer passed the doughnuts and I tells him plenty :"No,<br> All I takes this trip is coffee, for my stomach is a wreck."<br> I could see the itch for killin' swell the wattle on his neck.<br> <br> Scorn his grub? He strings some doughnuts on the muzzle of his gun,<br> And he shoves her in my gizzard and he says, "You're takin' one!"<br> He was set to start a graveyard, but for once he was mistook;<br> Me not wantin' any doughnuts, I just up and salts the cook.<br> <br> Did they fire him? Listen, pardner, there was nothin' left to fire,<br> Just a row of smilin' faces and another cook to hire.<br> If he joined some other outfit and is cookin', what I mean,<br> It's where they ain't no matches and they don't need kerosene.<br> by Henry Herbert Knibbs<br> </font> <img border="0" src="skulline.gif" width="468" height="58"></p> <div align="center"> <table border="1" width="95%" bordercolorlight="#FFCC00" bordercolordark="#000080" bgcolor="#FFFFFF"> <tr> <td> <center><font size="5"><b>H</b></font><b><font size="5">ENRY HERBERT KNIBBS </font></b> <br> <img border="0" src="hhknibbs.jpg" width="182" height="217"></center> <blockquote> <p>     Henry Herbert Knibbs 1874 - 1945 was born in Clifton (Niagara Falls), Ontario, Canada to affluent American parents. His biography record at Los Angeles Library states that his ancestors were Cornish tin miners, seamen and Long Island farmers. </p> <p>     He was encouraged to read the works of Longfellow, Lord Byron, Whittier, Tennyson, Edgar Allen Poe while developing a love for the fiddle and its music. His introduction to horses and livestock on his grandparents' farm in Pennsylvania stuck with him throughout his life. </p> <p>     He never graduated from college but attended Woodstock College at age 14, then Bishop Ridley College for three years and studied English at Harvard. He moved to California in 1901 where he wrote his first Novel, <i>Lost Farm Camp</i>. </p> <p>       Henry Herbert Knibbs was a scholar who aspired to be a Western writer and poet. There is no doubt that he put more research and thought into his writing than either Kiskaddon or Barker. He was not born into ranch life, but became a Western writer through his great efforts. As a result, he left a legacy of profound cowboy poetry for our pleasure. His poem "Punchin' Dough" appeared in <i> Popular Magazine.</i><br> <br>        There is an excellent book of poems by Knibbs that has been  published by <b>Cowboy Miner Productions</b>: </p> <table width="85%" cellspacing="3" cellpadding="4" bordercolorlight="#000080" bordercolordark="#FFCC00" border="5"> <tr> <td><a href="http://www.cowboyminer.com/books.html"> <img height="216" src="knib01h3.jpg" width="146" align="left"></a><b>Cowboy Poetry Classic Rhymes by Henry Herbert Knibbs</b> <br> Janice M. Coggin (Editor), H. Mason Coggin (Editor) <br> List Price: $19.95 ~ Hardcover: 208 pages <br> Publisher: Cowboy Miner Productions; ISBN: 0966209117; (July 1, 1999) <br> <a href="http://www.cowboyminer.com/books.html"> http://www.cowboyminer.com/books.html</a> <p align="left"> </td> </tr> </table> </blockquote>  </td> </tr> </table> </div> <p>                                 <a href="rangewriter.htm">HOME </a>     <a href="knibbswhereponiesdrink.htm">NEXT POEM</a></p> </body> <embed SRC="poorboyblues.mid" loop="0" autostart="true" align="left" width="50" height="30">