Would You Wait for Just a Minute?
John R. Yaws
WOULD YOU STOP FOR JUST A MINUTE
Would you stop for just a minute
So we can talk this over?
Before you take the bags out to the car—
Your plane don't leave from Dallas
For nearly three more hours
And you know the airport isn't very far.
I know I said I'd quit the road
For the last two seasons
But honey I just know I'll win the gold
I just have a feeling
I can't give you any reasons
And yeah I realize I'm gettin' old.
You're right, the rodeo a game
For kids, and crazy outfits
You may be right, I fit the latter bill
My body feels the rides and spills
For weeks instead of days now
And yeah, I'm getting rusty at my skills
What's that you say? the nest egg?
You had hid in the cabinet?
Well, babe, I'm kinda short of entry fees
It's just a loan, I'll put it back
When I score big in Denver
It'll be back there next week, you wait and see.
Why, hon, I've never lied to you—
At least I haven't lately
I'm gonna win at Mesquite, Friday night—
And, yes, I know I got bucked off
At Gatesville just last Sunday
And yeah, I know I was an awful sight.
That horse could buck!-What's that you say?
I rode him twice last summer?
Last week I lost him coming out the gate?
Embarassed you? How about me?I know it was a bummer—
But don't you b'lieve in what we all call fate?
Why sure i love you, baby—
And have you seen my rigging?
Now why's your face agettin so durn red—
Look! Here you are a gripin'
Instead of bein' pos'tive
You oughta try to cheer me up instead.
Why, honey, what's the matter?
I just can't believe you're leaving—
Who's gonna wash and patch my old blue jeans
And pick me up when I break down
And be here waiting for me—
And fix a bait of beef and turnip greens?
© 1999 John R. Yaws. All rights reserved.
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Six Seconds
John R. Yaws
Mahan, and Hawkeye, and Freckles, and Gay—
Each of them made the Pro Rodeo pay.
Consistent "eight seconds" though oft riding hurt—
My average was six, and a mouthful of dirt.
I bucked off in Denver, then in Santa Fe—
Then at the Cow Palace, one cold, foggy day.
If it wasn't buttoned, I'd sure lose my shirt,
From riding six seconds, then biting the dirt.
I almost rode "Satan," a big, rangy bay—
Known as a "good draw" back in those days.
I was lookin' real good until I lost a stir'p—
I stayed with him seven, then plowed up the dirt.
I gave it my best shot, but I couldn't win-
I'd draw a "sunfisher," or bull that would spin.
I hung my saddle, although it shore hurt—
I was fed up with "sixes," and plumb full of dirt.
© 1998 John R. Yaws. All rights reserved.
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It’s All Part of a Way of Life
John R. Yaws
Big, hot bowl of chili, to fight the cold outside,
My fifteenth cup of coffee, tomorrow night I ride,
My entries are in Denver, and I’m in Abilene—
A lot of hard and lonely miles, are lying in between.
I guess I’d better hurry up and get back on the road
Get my head together and in a traveling mode,
Plug in my old bird dog, and put the hammer down,
A lot of miles to cover, before the first go round.
Chorus:
That’s all part of a way of life, that folks call “rodeo”
Living from a suit case, and always on the go.
One year will age you seven, that’s one thing you can know—
It’s all part of a way of life, that folks call ‘rodeo.”
I broke three ribs in Casper, it really set me back—
I need to take the “average” to get me back on track.
Those wrinkles, and the gray hair, both say I’m getting old—
I’d like ten head in Vegas, and a chance to take the Gold.
I told my wife I’d quit the game, but that was ‘93-
She gave me three more years of grace, before she quit on me—
It’s like a raging fever, that keeps me on the go—
It’s all part of a way of life, that folks call “rodeo.”
© 1998 John R. Yaws. All rights reserved.
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Last of the Breed
John R. Yaw
Thirty six years of hard labor—
And nothing to show for it all.
A wife and three kids who don't know him,
He's crippled from many a fall.
He used to be tall, lean, and handsome—
But middle age spread has set in,
He has no companion or lover—
He's outlived most all of his friends.
I guess that his brand reads "West Texas."
He'll turn fifty-one, first of May.
Foot-loose, a drifter, a throwback—
To the West and her wild, wooly days.
He hung up his spurs back in eighty—
When injuries made him too slow—
To make a good ride on the rough-stock,
That he rode in the Pro Rodeo.
Out back of the chutes you'll still find him,
With advice that the young ones won't heed.
It's more than a life it's a callin'—
And he's the last of the vanishing breed.
Copyright ©1999 by John
R. Yaws, all rights reserved.
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Make Your Bid For Eight
John R. Yaws
Faded Wrangler denims, Paul Bond’s on my feet-
Prescott in the summer, I can feel the blazing heat.
I won last week in Needles, the first time in a while—
By my mental calculation, that’s about a buck a mile.
Rodeo's a way of life, a way of going broke,
To win: it’s all or nothing, you can’t halfstep or choke
Pay your dues, and draw your stock, and blow out of the gate,
Ride him high, and spur him hard, and make your bid for eight.
Phone cards by the dozen, Super size your meals—
Breakfast at McDonald’s, your supper’s Burger deals.
Every dime that you can save, is gas or entry fees—
And still you call this freedom, and living as you please.
Trouble on the home front, you’re gone the whole year long—
And when she tries to reason, you sing that same sad song.
“I know this year’s the big one, a feeling in my bones.”
Some day you’ll pull into the yard and find that woman gone.
Yes, rodeo’s a way of life, or way of going broke . . .
To win it’s all or nothing, you can’t half step or choke.
Pay your dues, draw your stock, and blow out of the gate—
Ride him high, spur him hard, and make your bid for eight.
Copyright ©1999 by John R. Yaws, all rights reserved.
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