When the West Was Wild
It wasn’t the land that made cowboys—it was their untamed spirit.
In moonlit nights, a cowboy bold,
With supper pasta, stories told.
He dreamed of wrangling wild and free,
But tangled dreams were meant to be.
He twirled the noodles, flour-dust flying,
A lasso made, his hopes complying.
Yet each soft twist soon turned to knave,
As spaghetti coiled like a snake in a grave.
The horse stood hungry, eyes wide aglow,
As sauce-stained ropes began to flow.
With every yank, the mess grew tight,
A calfs nightmare in the pale moonlight.
At dawn he laughed, his heart so light,
With noodles gone, it felt just right.
A cowboys charm, in laughters cheer,
Adventures taste, through meals austere.
Copyright © 2024 Randy Salars
All rights reserved
All rights reserved