COWBOY POETRY: Marshall Brady

Cowboy poet Bryce Angell

The Marshal woke up early and he shot right out of bed. First. he put his boots on, then his chaps of shiny red.

He strapped a six gun on each side until they felt just right. Then grabbed his Stetson, put it on, and pulled the hat down tight.

The Marshal had an appetite. He liked his pancakes hot. He liked them shaped like Mickey Mouse with butter on the top.

The Marshal was just six years old. His parents named him John. But he insisted Marshal Brady was his name now on.

He shoveled down his hotcakes, then he hurried out the door. He always checked for rustlers. They could rob him to the core.

The Marshal found a rustler who’d been itchin’ for a fight. The robber had four hairy legs and a bark without a bite.

The Marshal tossed his lasso and it cleared the rustler’s head. He pulled the rope, but not too tight, and locked him in the shed.

The Marshal held a trial for his rustler in the jail. But the judge was not a hanging judge. He let him out on bail.

The rustler was relieved about as much as he could be. When the Marshal opened up the door the rustler bolted free.

The Marshal’s everyday was mostly keeping peace about. He had respect from everyone. The Marshal’s name held clout.

Back home in time for supper, he gobbled down his food – cheese sandwich and tomato soup, just for a little dude.

His mother made him take a bath every single night. For a lawman like the Marshal, to him, “It just ain’t right!”

He said his prayers and hopped in bed and pulled the covers tight. Then closed his eyes and fell asleep before Mom hit the light.

His mother sat beside him and then kissed him on the head. She loved to see her little boy asleep in his warm bed.

Well the Marshal’s day is over. The bad guys on the run. Tomorrow is another day for a mother’s little son.

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