The Western is a blessing for the heart that bids adieu
to our modern claptrap with its wishy-washy view.
Out there past the Pecos, where the Rio Grande swirls,
men were men, and gals were good and moue'd like little girls.
Randolph Scott and Gabby Hays rode roughshod over vice;
and John Wayne was magnificent on prairie, farm or ice.
Ben Johnson, Ed Buchanan, and a host of other guys
were always on their mettle under arching azure skies.
With John Ford as director using Yakima Canutt
to do the stunts, these movies never hit a bump or rut.
While Roy and Dale and Trigger might appear a bit jejune,
they never failed to brighten up a childhood afternoon.
The Sons of Pioneers might croon a lullaby for cows
while bushwhackers are planning how the hero they may chouse.
It all played out in black and white -- no shades of grey had they;
the badmen were defeated once for all at end of day.
The sound of horse hoofs pounding on the dust in Santa Fe
warms the cockles of my heart in such a tender way.
It makes me wish a buckboard were a-waitin' down the lane
to take me out to Oregon upon a wagon train.
But I am stuck in traffic, not a horse or steer in sight;
I'm nuthin' but a greenhorn with a memory that's trite . . .
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