by Arthur Chapman
Down here in Cactus Center we ain't much on splittin' hairs;
In the fancy shades of language we are puttin' on no airs,
But we're shy one young reporter--it was strange how it occurred--
Who mussed up a brilliant future when he chose jest one wrong word.
He hustled local items for the "Stockmen's Weekly Star";
He was young and plumb ambitious, and he made friends near and far;
He never knocked nobody, but he allus tried to boost,
And we thought he'd make a wonder on the journalistic roost.
But he wrote, with good intentions, as most every one allows,
"Our townsman, Poker Johnson, has gone South to rustle cows";
He meant to say that Poker was a-roundin' up his brand,
For he did n't know that "rustle" meant to "thieve" in Cattle Land.
When Poker Johnson read it he put on an extry gun,
And he came to town a-frothin' with his bronco on the run;
The reporter got a warnin' and he hopped a cowboy's beast
And he started navigatin' for the calm and distant East.
We got old Poker quiet when he'd busted up the press,
And had shot holes in the sanctum and had made the type of mess;
And we'd like a bright reporter who is broke to Western slang--
No more such babes shall money with out newspaper she-bang!
Last updated February 21, 2018