"The Night Before Competition"

This wonderful poem was written by my dear friend Bonnie. I had the privilege to ride and shoot with Bonnie in some Cowboy Mounted Shooting competitions. Not only is Bonnie a sharp shooter, but a teacher, writer, and artist as well! Thanks for the smiles Bonnie!

The Night Before Competition
by Bonnie Andersen
‘Twas the night before competition, when all through the camp
Not a shooter was stirring, not even the champ;
The holsters were hung by the trailer door with care,
In hopes that clean pistols would soon be in there;
The Wranglers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of new buckles danced in their heads;
And Ma in her Wah-Makers, and I in my chaps,
Had just settled down for an evening night cap,
When out in the arena there arose such a clatter,
I fell out of the trailer to see what was the matter.
Away to the crows nest I flew like a quail,
Threw open the door and leaned over the rail.
The moon on the breast of the newly plowed ground
Gave the luster of mid-day to the objects around,
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature rider dressed in all his cowboy gear,
The little old codger was lively and quick,
I knew in a moment this was no hick.
More rapid than eagle the courses he flew,
And he shot, and shouted, like a true buckaroo;
The "X", and the Post, and the Dice and the Arrow!
The Double Run Down, the "T" and the Desperado!
To cross the time line, in just a blur!
Now Giddy-Up! Giddy-Up! Whip and Spur!
As lightening and thunder before the storm brews,
The black powder from pistol, at each shot it spews,
So around the barrel the courses they flew,
With guns a blazing, one shot takes two.
And then in an instant, he was done with the run,
He slowed down his horse and holstered his gun.
I drew in my head and turned around,
Down the steps of the crow’s nest, I flew with a bound.
I rounded the corner and opened the gate,
Strolled into the arena to ponder and wait.
He was dressed all in leather, from his head to his foot,
His clothes were all tarnished with black powder soot;
A box full of ammo he pulled from his bag,
He lit up a smoke and took a log drag.
His eyes were all wrinkled! Their glow was quite scary,
His cheeks were all weathered and really quite hairy.
His droll little mouth was tight as a rope,
And years of hard labor made his shoulders slope.
The .45 pistol he held in his grip,
With a matching one attached to his hip;
His legs were bowed and his boots were quite dusty,
He winced as he moved as if his joints were all rusty.
He was as tough as they come, in a cowboy way,
And I thought as I watched him, he was good in his day;
A wink of his eye and a tip of his hat,
Soon gave me to know I was right about that.
He spoke not a word, as was the creed,
And loaded his pistol; then mounted his steed,
Raising the reins within his left hand,
He gave me a nod, and looked over the land.
He rode to the hill and turned to the side,
Raised his hat in farewell, and thanks for the ride.
But I heard him exclaim, as he rode out in the night,
"Keep your butt in the saddle and a balloon in your sights."