He Lived With His Boots On

[couchgrouch]

He Lived With His Boots OnDeep in a southwest canyon, 'round nineteen and threeCooch saved a cobbler from bandits, so he was made deputyand that cobbler was so grateful, so the story goeshe made Cooch boots of leather, cowbone in their square toesthey stayed one of two places, his feet or 'neath his bunkthose hard toes saved his knuckles, when he was rousting drunksthrough the jailhouse window, dust'd see him at dawnbreakfast of beans and coffee, in his boots and old long Johnscos he lived with his boots onwell, Cooch took all his savings, to the silversmiththey barely bought the silver, to make fancy spurs withafter Sheriff Jones went skyward, Cooch wore his earthly starand though he wore it proudly, his real badges were those spurstheir jangling down the sidewalk, scared brawlers from saloonswhen he outdrew gunfighters, they glimmered by the moonand the preacher's virgin daughter, blushed a cherry redwhen she caught Cooch, in just his bootsone night by the nature shedcos he lived with his boots onthat's how a cowboy rides and walkstoes sneaking through old woolen socksev'ry night he'd pull them offand pour out pebbles and rocksmade of hard boar hide they saved him from rattlesnake bitesmen like him are now mostly gonehe lived with his boots onthe day that Cooch married, that reverend's lovely girleven his spurs of silver, paled beside her golden curlsbut while they were honeymooning, there came an outlaw gangwho staged a daring robb'ry, and shot townsfolk at the bankCooch tried to form a posse, but found no volunteersand who'd blame men with fam'lies, for giving in to fearhis bride sensed it was farewell, when he rode out alonebut his stallion's loyal stirrups, held his heels and brought him homecos he lived with his boots onthe blacksmith melted his pistol, and paid her for the scrapshe fed some wild coyotes, his suede vest and cowhide chapstintypes of his likeness, graced the Tucson Telegraphbut dust upon his granite, is a cowboy's epitaphhis coffin suit's long crumbled, like most handmade clothbut he'll wear those boots forever, safe from time's hungry mothfrom high upon boothill, a ghostly stallion felt a stingas Cooch spurred him up to heaven, with sweeps of ivory wingscos he lived with his boots onthat's how a cowboy rides and walkstoes sneaking through old woolen socksev'ry night he'd pull them offand pour out pebbles and rocksmade of hard boar hide they saved him from rattlesnake bitesmen like him are now mostly gonehe lived with his boots on(c)2004 Robert George