William H. Anderson: Bring Um' Back Bill

Back in the eighteen-seventies,

within the Texas border,

was a feller' named William H. Anderson

who had a natural talent fer' law an' order.

If a stranger shot a ranger

then escaped over the hill,

they sought the man with a never quit plan,

known by some as "Bring um' Back Bill."

An' if another kind committed a crime,

a hopin' ta' make it pay,

it were a sure bet with Bill trackin' um',

he'd bring um' in ta' see a court day.

Yep, crime was mighty costly

fer' those who took the chance.

Once caught ya' see, there were options, three;

do yer' time, pay yer' fine, or take yer' place at a rope dance.

So never mistake this Bill Anderson

with the cutthroat who rode with Quantrill,

cuz' Bloody Bill took ta' killin' the innocent,

while the innocent had nothin' ta' fear from Bring um' Back Bill.

Course facts do prove that this Bill too

began the Civil War wearin' Confederate gray.

Then after some thinkin' he changed ta' Yankee blue,

switched ta' an Illinois regiment from his birth state.

Though he opted fer' Texas ta' make his home

an' take ta' wearin' the star.

Ta' be one of the best after some of the worst

was a choice he hoped would take him far.

If ya' judged by miles he truly went far,

cuz' he never stopped at the border.

From state ta' state, even Canada or Mexico,

he'd go anywhere ta' dish out law an' order.

Course Lady Luck don't follow that law,

the Law of Average is her guide.

An' we'd argue she weren't much of a lady

steppin' aside on the day that Bring um' Back Bill died.

He was given the chore ta' bring in Bill Collins,

last survivor of the Joel Collins gang.

The goal of course was ta' bring him in,

an' give him a trial before he'd hang.

Anderson gave chase, he dogged him hard

up ta' little Pembina in Manitoba, north of the U.S.

Though it looked as if Collins figured dyin' there

was jus' as easy as a rope, I guess.

Both Bill's drew their steel

an' commenced the deal

by throwin' led in the other's direction.

An' both died in the fight,

though only one in the right,

with a chance at a heavenly resurrection.

An' on that day the Good Lord may say,

I need the devil taken back ta' hell...

Send out the man

with the grit an' the sand,

none other than Bring um' Back Bill.

My Heritage: One Generation Removed

Although I write more poetic prose than actual cowboy poetry, it irks me to be told I have no right to write cowboy poetry because I am not an actual working cowboy. What ticks me off the most about that is that I would have been born into that life if it had not been for the government swindling policies to force a lot of ranchers and farmers off their lands: lands that had often been in their families for generations. And I also ask those  who claim I'll never belong to their community, where were their fighting spirits when all the ranchers and farmers were losing their land? --- I am just one generation away from my country heritage, and it weighs heavy on me because I have a country heart... and because of that I'll write when I want, where I want, what I want, and for as long as I want. --- I shed blood for this country, and anyone claiming they want me to give up my liberties will be in for a fight.

I've been told I've got no right

ta' be writin' cowboy poetry,

cuz' I ain't an actual cowpoke on the range.

An' if I persist there'll be a fight,

an' perhaps a rope thrown o're a tree,

cuz' they rate dudes even lower than the mange.

But they forget the range is dwindlin'.

It's less than half of what it were.

Big spreads have gone the way of the Dodo bird.

Yet where were they durin' Uncle Sam's swindlin'?

An' why am I the brunt of a common slur

jus' because our family lost its ranch an' herd?

It's true I am a city born,

but I got me a country heart,

an' it bleeds red, white, an' blue jus' like yours.

You were raised a holdin' a saddle horn,

I was forced ta' have street smarts,

but they served me well in uniform on those distant shores.

My Ma was raised upon a ranch,

my Grandpa Grover's down in Texas.

I heard all the stories but never got ta' see.

I was on the broken branch,

after the government's double-taxes,

that cut-off the country side of my family tree.

Ya' point yer' fingers at me

an' claim I'll never be one of ya'll.

Ya' say I'm a pretender who jus' bought a hat.

The country fried community,

I wanted it, barn raising's an' all.

But when Gramp's spread was on the choppin' block,

where were you at?

Gramp's worked hard all his life;

he was strong, quiet, an' proud.

The Good Lord even took him home as he sat in church.

He never deserved the strife

from the rustlin' government crowd,

as they sowed unsavory policies, leavin' common folk in the lurch.

It's true I love my country,

but I hate my Uncle Sam,

he stole from me the life I shoulda' had.

Country's most my genealogy,

it's my heritage: who I am.

An' ta' have it stole, one generation removed, makes me damn mad!

So if ya'll still say I ain't country,

an' ain't fit ta' write country poetry,

give it yer' best cuz' I'll stand with ya' toe ta' toe.

I can't choose the place of my birth,

but I can choose how I'll live,

an' I'll live country til the day I go.