Cowboy: A cowboy always has his rope Real cowboys don’t smoke dope Some will chew a hunk of chaw But never do they drop their jaw A cowboy loves to roam the range And thinks that towns are strange Where city folk live in wood-frames On the doors they carve their names. He rides his horse from ranch to ranch But bunks under an old tree branch. Cowboys rarely ever cuss And barely ever make a fuss, Never reaches the end of a rope Nor does he ever give up hope. Burnt Wood: There is darkness in the woods Where fire broke out and leaves were chard Where a little boy hangs from the playground yard At such an early age It was the betrayal of another That caused him so much rage. And when expanded he could not cope But brought him to lose all hope Had he been scorch by his love Whom Venus woke from above Had Galatea said, “You I do not love” Had she betrayed Pygmalion as this child, He would have lost his world of joy And could have joined this little boy the voice: Poetry on the Move: 7