Monday, September 18, 2006


Dad Poems: The Cantina ... A Poem by my Father

The Cantina

Harold Williams

I was sittin’ in this cantina having supper ...

A nice big juicy Kansas City strip,

When this ole saddle pal of mine came stollin in,

And said hey par, I’ll give you a little tip.

He said, you still ride for the Bar-C brand,

Where their meet’s as tough as leather.

You see, I now ride for the Broken-K,

And we all get fed better.

I see you eat your steak in this cantina,

Instead of at the grub house or out on the range.

Why, our camp cook’s the best there is!

With him, no food tastes plain.

Well, I let him talk and he went on and on,

About how their grub’s the best.

Why, us hands that eat at the Broken K,

We’re fatter than all the rest.

Now if you’ll come over and throw your rope in with us,

I’ll put in a good word to the boss.

Won’t be no problems and he’ll hire ya in a second,

Especially since you have your own hoss.

I said, you may be right, our cook’s no saint,

His coffee’s so thick he has to stir it with a paddle.

And that range stew’s something that no man should eat,

But he cooks up plenty and it does keep you in the saddle.

Now he’s an onery old cuss and nary a good word for any,

And he argues with all the hands.

But there’s a unity there among that group,

You don’t find that at the other brands.

They work together and ride together,

And they may cuss each and all ...

But if some outsider tries to step between ‘em,

Well, Bud, he’s ridin for a fall.

Just then my waitress came over to my table,

So I thanked him but said I’ll have to pass.

Well, he hardly heard a word I said, his eyes on her,

As she leaned over to refill my glass.

I said, now you see old pard why I come to this cantina ...

Has nothin’ to do with old camp cookie’s cookin.

I came to see the nice scenery here ...

Cause I surely do enjoy the lookin'.

Ava...I love these poems written by your dad...They're really good and tell a story.
Thank you, Sandy.

My dad is a marvelous story teller. I love the inflections he makes with his voice when he's reading his poetry and telling stories. When I read these poems, I hear them in his voice and it's wonderful. He always reads them to me over the phone.

I miss him. I need to go visit.
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