The Prairie Prince

He sat the saddle
Like a true prairie prince.
There’s been nothing like him
Not then, nor since.

He carried a Winchester rifle
A Colt .45
And an Arkansas Toothpick
To keep him alive.

A big blue tic hound
Trotted along
But he was his own dog
Not a mutt who belonged.

He packed his bedroll
A blanket and such.
The necessities of life
Never amounted to much.

His occupation was riding
The same as his joy
His horse was his tool
And his tools were toys.

He saw a lot of scenery
Throughout his life.
Never had him a girlfriend
Much less a wife.

He played a little faro
And drank too much shine
Never swallowed beer
And hated all wine.

To him, jerky was supper
And boiled coffee, at least.
His tastes were real simple.
Fried chicken was a feast.

I guess he died in the saddle
But nobody knows.
He just stopped appearing.
That’s how the tale goes.

But he left a tall shadow
And big boots to fill.
It’d take a real man match him.
I doubt anyone will.