COWBOY POETRY: Men Don’t Listen

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.

My wife suggested taking down our brand-new teepee tent.  Our grandkids used it every day.  The cost was dang well spent.

But the know-it-all that I’ve become said, “Leave it for a while.”  You should have seen the look she gave, a slightly, “We’ll see,” smile.

Why do men seldom listen to a good wife’s sound advice?  Are we afraid we might be called brow-beaten, hen-pecked mice?

One thing I’ve learned for certain and doggone it sure does bite.  The words that she dispenses me are darn near always right.

It must have been a day or two the wind began to blow.  I’d say it blew almost Mach II.  I’d soon be eating crow.

I made a dash toward the tent.  The wind blew at my tail.  My feet were taking lift off!  Turned my coat into a sail!

The tent was flapping like a flock of cackling, angry geese.  And the rain had soaked our teepee ‘bout as slippery as pig grease.

In vain attempts I tried to hold the teepee down in place.  But the rain drenched cloth was slick and wet.  I tumbled to my face.

Then all at once a chunk of tent tore off and took to air.  Our brand-new teepee tent was doomed.  My life was in despair.

I watched in abject horror while our tent was blown to shreds.  And once again I’d call myself the dumbest of eggheads.

My wife was calm, said not a word still, “Told you so,” rang loud!  I’d have to swear I walked that day beneath the blackest cloud.

My good sense tends to tell me,”Have you learned your lesson yet?”  But it takes a heap of changing so it sure ain’t worth a bet.

Are we really all that stubborn or do men have too much pride?  And will I learn to listen ‘fore I reach the other side?

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