Classic Poem

If you will listen, I'll say my say
About a lady. Her name was May.
And she was pretty and she was limber,
But the Marshal run her out of Big Timber,
And from what she said and done that day,
I reckon they called her Angel May.
Her hair was red and her eyes was blue.
But I wouldn't go with her if I was you.
And if I did, I wouldn't go far.
You take it from the Boss of the Circle-Bar.
With a broken arm he hit Blue Flat,
When May blew by in her Stetson hat,
Painted and powdered, and a sight to see,
And " Boss, " she says, " Take a whirl with me. "
And the Boss he says, " No, May my girl,
My arm is bruk, and I cannot whirl. "
Which proves a fellow don't know his luck
Sometimes, even if his arm is bruk.
" Who's running your beef-herd now? " says May.
Says the Boss: " That piker is Frank McCrea.
" His legs is putty. His head is bone.
" But I got some trailhands from San Antone.
" You come from somewhere down that way.
" I think I heerd so, Angel May. "
But May she answered in high disdain,
" You think so? Take a think again. "
Now the Boss's arm was hurtin' him bad,
Or he'd ha' noticed why May was mad.
For the only boy in the world for May
Was that pie-faced loafer Frank McCrea.
And every one in the whole North West
Knew Frank was an ornery cattle-pest.
And I've hern tell that further South
The Greasers call him " Foot and Mouth. "
He couldn't rope and he couldn't ride.
He hadn't the guts of a man inside.
He couldn't brand or cut or shoot,
But he drew an ace right smart from his boot.
Which don't prove nothing at all, becuz
Frank was a devil with women, he wuz.
They fell for him white and Cree and Sioux,
And Angel May she fell for him too.
And he was a regular song and dance.
And the sun it rose on the seat of his pants.
All her earnings, every cent,
On that low-life buckeroo she spent,
For all the licker that he could hold,
And that dirty loafer quit her cold.
And she hadn't seen him for nigh two years,
And here he was running the Boss's steers,
Eating overtime, riding slow,
Pushing the herd from Mexico.
Now Angel May didn't wait no more.
The lights was burning in the " Matador, "
Montana laying its aces down,
For half of Texas had come to town.
The drinks was flowing in that den of vice.
I ought to know. I got shot there twice.
And there was the trapper Two-Dot Jones,
Hitting the red-eye, rolling the bones.
She looks at the gang. " Two-Dot, " says she,
" Come here, old timer, and talk with me.
" Two-Dot, I know I done you dirt,
" But you don't want May to come to no hurt.
" Get me a horse, and get me away.
" I must see that piker, Frank McCrea.
" I know he's a half-breed. I ain't no star.
" We hit the trail for the Circle-Bar. "
Now I never heard no other report,
Two-Dot Jones was a game old sport.
Three days they rode. They hit the fourth
The trail of the beef-herd travelling North.
And through the shadow and the night a-falling
They heard the jingle of the bells calling,
Heard 'em jingle near and far,
The cavallarda of the Circle-Bar.
She fussed a lot, did Angel May,
Over that piker Frank McCrea.
She gave him the rough side of her tongue,
But you should have seed the whiskey she brung.
There was sure enough to drown the house.
And the whole damn' camp was one big souse.
And Frank McCrea got more'n his share,
Which he wouldn't have done, if the Boss was there.
But the Boss by that was a damn, sick man
With a broken arm in Bozeman.
With his head in her lap, Frank's snoring hard.
It came to the change of the cattle-guard.
He never shifted, he never stirred.
In came Kid Angel from riding herd.
He looks at May, an' he says: " Good night!
There'll be some shooting soon as there's light.
Tomorrow it's me for the Rio Grand',
And Frank, I reckon for the Promised Land.
He's going to drink just one drink more
Before he starts for the Golden Shore. "
And he put a bottle careful by,
For he wouldn't be mean and send him dry.
He rolled in his blanket. And Angel May
Held Frank's head in her lap till day.
Just before sun-up Coyote Joe
Blew in. Says May, " Has Frank a show? "
" A chance, " says Joe, " But I'm no liar,
" Same as a snow-ball in Hell-fire.
" The Kid can shoot a bug off the limb.
" " Bat" Masterson has nothing on him. "
And up the sun come, glum and pale,
And the boys is singing " The Chisholm Trail, "
And chewing his lip, and mad to let drive,
Kid Angel's playing with his forty-five.
And the liquor's burning in Frank McCrea.
And I never want to fight his way.
And she says to him: " McCrea, you're tight:
" Pull yourself together. You got to fight. "
An' he says, " Where? " An' she says: " Right here!
" For this Kid Angel is my brother dear.
" An' he says he'll get you too, by damn,
Because you made me what I am. "
And Frank McCrea, he gets to his feet,
And his hands are shaking an' he's white as a sheet.
Kid Angel's looking mighty mean,
And he says, " You swine! I'll drill you clean. "
Coyote Joe is bossing the show.
He's raised his hand and raring to go.
Frank's head is shaking, and the sweat it run
Down the face of that son-of-a-gun.
The Kid he whipped his gun up spry.
But Angel May heaved her hat in his eye.
He flinched an inch, and the shot went wild,
That May was sure a mischievous child.
And Frankie's bullet, straight and true,
Split the Kid's wish-bone right in two.
The Kid he dropped. And " May, " says he,
" He's drilled me clean. The joke's on me.
" He's the worst shot I ever saw.
" But give my love to Paw and Maw.
" Skin out before this show gets pinched.
" I don't want no sister of mine to get lynched.
" You skip away with Frank McCrea,
" And damn you anyhow Angel May. "