HAT IN HAND….
often bother me -
It’s always this or that,
But no decision takes my time
Like buyin’ a workin’ hat.
workin’ hat don’t just mean
A baseball cap or other such -
It means a cowboy hat to shield rain,
Or dust, or hold my horse’s lunch.
has to fit, and look just right,
And color plays a role of course.
Though like as not it soon will look
Same as my Appaloosa horse.
mate of mine is pretty bright,
So as I climbed into my truck, she said,
If you’re headed out to buy a hat,
Will you be back in time for bed?
course, my dear, was my reply,
It shouldn’t take me long at that,
I’m just goin’ to the western store
To buy myself a cowboy hat.
good two hours and fifteen hats
Of every shape and style had passed,
With none that fit my head as well
As my old and trusted Stetson Gus.
tried on white, and black, and brown,
And silver belly too,
And all the shades of in-between
Except for red and blue.
tried the different styles as well,
From Cattleman, Ranch, and Pinch,
To Gambler, Duke, and all the rest -
Till my head had fair been lynched.
It was then I noticed a neat black Gus,
On a table within reach of my arm.
I picked it up - put it on top,
And by golly, it fit like a charm.
mirror of course told the truth,
Like a dog who knows his own bone -
The hat that fit fine on the top of my head,
I realized then, was my own.
slowly, I walked through the door,
My mate was enjoying a cup.
I see you made a decision, she said,
But it certainly wasn’t abrupt.
grinned a dumb grin, then doffed my old hat,
And sat down in the chair with a grunt.
Well, none of ‘em fit the way they should fit -
May-be I’ll go looking’ again… next month…