He got his first horse at Christmas this year from good ol’ Uncle Stephen.

For Wrangler-in Charge, he looked pretty young but looks can be deceivin’.

He topped out his bronc ‘fore cook lit the fire with lots of loud Ty Yi’ in’

And if he laid off or slighted the horse it weren’t for lack of tryin’.

He rope broke him quick and taught him to back and hold tight any bad actor.

No critter escaped the reach of his loop; Pooh, Big Bird or the tractor.

They covered the range from sofa to rug and ruled the carpet nation.

The dog and the cat soon gave him wide berth, such was his reputation.

Sometimes he would take his quiver and bow and wear a turkey feather.

“Me Indie,” he’d say and chased buffalo. The plains went on forever.

When Sonny would buck, and he could sure buck, the kid might come unseated.

“Me rodeo, Dad,” then get right back on, scuffed up but undefeated.

Last night after chuck he readied for bed but since he’d not unsaddled

He patted his horse and asked, “Okay, Dad, me, Sonny, check the cattle?”

I mighta been green but I could detect a sucker play unfoldin’.

Just any excuse so he could stay up, each second saved was golden.

“Sure, git on yer horse,” I prompted the kid. He sorta hesitated.

He wasn’t quite dressed to mount up and ride, his inner mind debated.

He gathered his rope and steadied the horse then looked back for permission.

The boss held his gaze, then gave him a nod. He swung into position.

He let out a whoop and rode off to give the herd a quick inspection.

To be a top hand you go by the rules, the height of circumspection.

He’d already learned that young buckaroos must check in with their mamas,

‘Cause she’d always said that real cowboys don’t ride in their pajamas.

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