The Pilfered Slice
By Lincoln Rogers, (c) 2003
I’d done left it on the counter,
Before I’d gone to throw some hay.
Never thinking that some larceny,
Would be practiced here today.
I see the season says it’s Christmas,
The time of year to not find fault.
But when it comes to treasured tastes,
Warm Pecan Pie should be locked in a vault.
Now I know there’s lots of suspects,
From the party gathered here.
All those smiling, laughing cowpokes,
Chock full of Holiday good cheer.
But I left it nonetheless,
Expecting it would be all right.
There’s after all a cowboy code,
And stealing pie just isn’t right.
So I waded to the barn,
Through powdered snowdrifts four feet high,
The horses’ bellies won’t stay full,
Although I’ve asked them all to try.
I thought of pie while tossing Brome,
And while I filled cold water tanks.
Thought while shoveling “processed hay,”
A job with little to zero thanks.
Pecans they danced across my vision,
While I checked hooves and picked them clean.
I was looking forward to the taste,
As horses munched Alfalfa green.
You know, my mouth was fairly waterin’,
On my return trek through the snow.
I could almost smell the warm pie,
From the fenceline lit for show.
But when I came back from the barn,
Where I’d done sprained my right hand thumb.
Through my tears of pain a’poolin’,
I glimpsed around your mouth a crumb.
I don’t think that’d be unusual,
If your hands had held a plate.
But since I saw your palms were empty,
I reckon that done sealed your fate.
If this had been the Old West,
I’d sure have called you out right then.
For a duel with holstered weapons,
That’s just how it might have been.
Instead I set off towards the kitchen,
‘Cuz that’s where all the sweets were kept.
When I saw the Pecan Pie was gone,
I could swear I nearly wept.
My head then peeked around the doorway,
Just to verify the sin.
Sure enough I spied more Pecan crumbs,
Clinging tightly to your chin.
But then we sang some Christmas carols,
And I read aloud of baby Jesus.
How the Savior came to earth,
And how through eyes of love He sees us.
So I put away my hurt,
Thought I’d forgive and not hold strife.
Towards the rustler of my pilfered slice...
My darlin’ sweet and hungry wife.
****************************
December’s Trail Home
By Lincoln Rogers, (c) 2003
I hear tell this week it’s Christmas,
At least the Trail Boss says it’s so.
But it’s hard to catch the spirit,
This far from kin and falling snow.
I’ve been ridin’ drag so long,
My sense of smell has been displaced.
From San Antone’ up through the Plains,
Dust and hide is all I taste.
Tin cup of coffee in my grip,
It’s ‘bout the only thing that’s hot.
Out in the grasp of ice-cold wind,
Can’t help but think of where I’m not.
Ma and Pa off in Nebraska,
On their farm of corn and wheat.
They proved up ground with soil so rich,
Like it’d been trod by God’s own feet.
But bustin’ sod was not my calling,
Behind a plow I couldn’t stay.
My folks knew horses ran my veins,
And watched me ride off West one day.
These eyes bear witness to vast prairies,
Running Longhorn o’er the trail.
A saddle and a string of ponies,
Through bright sun, rain, wind or hail.
But this winter campfire has me thinking,
Reckoning what I’m all about.
If some Angel’s came a calling,
Would I even hear their joyous shout?
Would I be like those old shepherds,
In the book of Holy Writ?
Scruffy Pards in charge of stock,
Hearing, “The Christ is born, now git!”
My small fire spitting in its ring,
Its flames undaunted by the night,
Convinces me to make a choice,
My heart affirms that it is right.
“Slim, wake up ya confound varmint,
I’ve got a piece of news to tell.
You know it’s years since I seen kin,
It might be time I rest a spell.
‘Cuz it’s a week ‘til Christmas Day,
And with Nebraska not too far.
If I saddle up old Gunner,
Maybe we’ll find our yonder star.”
I may not be in Isra-El,
And I sure weren’t no wise Magi,
But cantering east away from Slim,
The sting of moisture hits my eyes.
I know my Pards will understand,
‘Cuz I’m a Cowboy through and through.
I’ll join them next month in Salina,
Bearing a soul as good as new.
In the meantime I’ll see family,
That’s what this Season’s all about.
And like those Angels way back when,
The night will hear my joy ring out.
“Ya Gunner, git your hooves a runnin’,
Let’s cross the miles which block our way.
And Merry Christmas to ya boy,
For we’ll be home that Holy day.”
