Member Poem

You might live out of doors all day and night,
and herd the cattle till your thighs feel tight
as a rope round a longhorn’s throat, dog-tired with joy. 
No Stetson, though? You ain’t the real McCoy.

You may sport Levi’s jeans, fur chaps, a vest,
wool shirt, bandanna, ride across the West
like wind across the Plains, eat beef or poi.
Ain’t no Stet? You ain’t the real McCoy.

You may work as a wrangler on a horse,
battle bulls with out-and-out brute force
or wield a brandin’ iron like a toy.
No Stetson? Then you ain’t the real McCoy.

You might not have a clue what you would do
not hearin’ every Hereford’s mournful moo
(a tuba crossed with a woebegone hautbois). 
So where’s your Stet? You ain’t the real McCoy.

You might be self-dependent, honest, holster
a six gun for protection or to bolster
your ego, and as rugged as Rob Roy.
No Stetson? Nope! You ain’t the real McCoy.

Whether you ride a horse or drive a pickup
or risk your neck in rodeos and kick up
a field of dust, cheered by the hoi polloi ...
No Stet? You bet you ain’t the real McCoy!