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PRAIRIE SONGS
Galloped into Kimball 'long 'bout milkin' time,
Wind a-whoopin' from the North, cold as billy hell —
Ever known a prairie town in its infant prime?
Kimball was a corker an' I've seen some pretty swell.
Just a bunch o' dry goods boxes dumped along a rise,
Cracks plugged up with pitch an' tar, stove-pipes stickin' through,
But, you bet, that little burg was sure enough the prize Fer stirrin' up a tinted time an' startin' it to brew.
Thought I'd have a quiet night; Lord, it wa'n't no use!
First bumped into Billy Stokes, up from Bijou Hills, We wandered into "Rancher's Rest," spang onto "Shorthorn" Bruce,
Charlie Gates an' "Doc" Lemar, curin' of their chills.
Well, that closed the "quiet" act; things was due to burn.
Dabbled with the red-eye till the lamp-lights ringed an' soared. Then Lemar got wealthy an' thought he'd take a turn
Spinnin' out his sinkers on the racy roulette board.
Oh, the time was lovely (fer the man behind the wheel!)
Stokes an' "Shorthorn" joined the game, just to try their luck,
Charlie, landin' on the bar, started off a reel;
Then the banker "rolled the roll"—an' the blame thing stuck!
"Fixed!" yells Bill an' "Shorthorn," whippin' out their pipes;
Banker backed ag'in the wall, huntin' fer a crack, Air just pink with cuss-words, runnin' round in stripes,
Doors an' winders full o' folks, none a-comin' back.
"Doc" was just a-prancin' round, gettin' things in range,
So's to shoot the whole joint up without no undue pause,
When we heerd a little voice, thin an' mighty strange,
Pipin' up from somewheres, "Mister, is you Santa Claus?" |
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