Now about this here Thanksgiving,
there is two opposing views.
One helped by Pop McIntyre
and one helped by Smokey Hughes.
How these two old cowpokes
can debate the pros and cons produces in
the bunkhouse many verbal marathons.
I've always worked,
said Smokey,
for whatever I've had since first I
wrangled horses as a rusty knuckle lad.
I broke my share of bronco,
and I've punched a heap of cow,
and I've earned my own dang blessings
from the sweat of my own brow,
and why I should be thankful for what I duly earns just a lot of bosh and bunkum,
boys, that I ain't never learned.
My friend says, Pop Sarcastic,
you said your little piece
and proved you got a limber tongue
that's well -supplied with grease.
Now, you're noted as
a peeler
who is seldom ever thrown
to what good luck or blessing is your
skill at riding owed.
There ain't no good luck to it,
Pop, said Smokey.
I'm a man who ain't obliged
to nothin'
when I do the best I can.
For when I earn my wages
snappin' out a bunch of colts,
it's me, myself,
in person who's takin' all them jolts.
That's why I say Thanksgiving Day
is mostly just a fake
to give some folks a good excuse
for a turkey bellyache.
Pop McIntyre sucks his pipe
a thoughtful draw or two
then says, well, Smokey,
I'll admit that your buckaroo
sets a steady saddle
and ain't stingy with his sweat.
But maybe there's a thing or two
you stubbornly forget.
Now, you mention ridin' broncos,
and I'll admit you're ridin' good
and set up in the saddle
like a salty peeler should.
But for this you take all the credit,
and you claim you owe no thanks
for them buckarooster blessings of
the muscles in your shanks.
At least you could be thankful,
said Pop with a concludin' drawl,
that the good Lord split you up the middle,
or you couldn't ride at all.
you