The Daily Me
Feature 16 - July, 2001

"Cowboy Poetry"
I am a bed wrangler
What is that you say- a bed wrangler?
Well let me tell you about my days
It is a hard place to begin
Kings, Queens and Twins, even the occasional crib
The plains look sparse and dusty
When I look around and see
--9 dirty cabins full of dirty beds
My fingers are sore and calloused from the sheets
My back is stiff and my eyes will burn from acres of bright white sheets
Bend and pull, and rip and tug and yank the cases off
Flip and fold the corners in,
Finally the sheets are off
But this is only the beginning
When saddling up the beds
The tumbleweeds start rolling when I spot a stuck hair
Blond, black the Occasional red
The darned things they sure do cling
I wrassle with the strands pulling them off my fingers
And watch them slide through the air,
To once again thing
The struggle is futile and frustration sure does mount
When I look for the pillows and count-
Less head than I need
The cushions are missing and strewn about,
What a fine predicament indeed
After locating the missing head as eventually I do I look down to
realize there's mud on my shoe?
Tracking in dirt I stop to access,
What products will clean up this mess?
Spray a little resolve and wait for it to set
I grab my box of cleaning supplies and seek another mess
Soap scum in the sink, perhaps a sloppy toilet

Send me stains I can avenge
A clean cabin sure does spoil it
There are people, who make their beds,
Pull up blankets at arise
Wipe up their soap and toothpaste mess
Chuck their garbage into a pile
Fold their socks and wipe their boots
And leave me with free time

I like the people who make a mess-give a stain fighting challenge
Make me think - white or pink-what product will clean this mess
After I tie up and unload my cart-Lose my pony outside
I raise the lids and start the wash and think about my time
Look from north to South-Sioux to Arapaho
The plains are clear and sunny- not a cloud in the sky
Not a single dust bunny
I yawn and stretch, pop a bud, spoils from my battle
30 beds. All are made with not a hair in sight
Satins are none and dust is gone
The windows are still a fright
My eyes are not so blurry
I see the colors of the land
I tip my beer and weary with toil
My work here is done

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