Petersen: Limericks to live by
National Ag month recognizes that without farming and ranching, humans would have nothing to eat or wear. Here’s a few limericks that showcase (sorta) how cowboys, farmers and plain pig farmers get the job — of feeding and clothing the world — done.
LIMERICKS TO LIVE BY…
The lodgings of cowboys are humble,
They live in a terrible jumble
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But they thrive on the dirt
Old cowboys don’t die, they just crumble.
Cowboys are born without diapers
Midst sagebrush and cactus and vipers
So, they have to be tough
Which may be enough
To make them the world’s loudest gripers.
A cowgirl knows just what she should do
And several things that she wouldn’t do
But, by gosh, to her credit
Though she never has said it,
There really ain’t much that she couldn’t do.
A sheepherder’s wagon is small
Just a bunk and a stove and a wall.
He can cook and can sleep
And can tend to his sheep
But overnight guests? Not at all.
A pig farmer spilled booze from his flagon
As a sow sidled up to the wagon
She lapped up the liquid
Like any good pig would
And both got quite a big jag on.
Cowboys like coffee that’s black
And sturdy enough to attack
They brew it and brew it
Until they can chew it —
It tastes just like tar and shellac.
Oh, a diet of biscuits and beans
Can become an explosive of means
And that may be why
When old cowboys die
They find only tatters of jeans.
“Oh, good,” said the dumb little chickens
“We hear we’re the very best pickin’s”
But when they were chosen
They ended up frozen,
And later became finger-lickin’s.
The pig was an absolute charmer
She used all her wiles on the farmer
But he’s keeping books
So, despite her looks
She now wears a wrap labeled Armor.
A cowboy who seems to be prancing
Retreating and later advancing
As though in some pain
I’d like to explain
It’s just his idea of dancing.
A seven-foot tall lady angler
Fell in love with a bucking horse wrangler
They attempted to court
But the bunk was so short
In the morning, they couldn’t untangler.
A coyote pursuing a hunch
Spotted some sheep in a bunch
“Oh yum” he exclaimed
As he wounded and maimed
“I’ll have a sheep sandwich for lunch.”
The people who dearly love chicken soup
Have probably not cleaned a chicken coop
Do you think they would savor it?
If they knew that their favorite
Was started among all that chicken poop?
With branding-iron from the fire
The cowboy tripped over a wire
He plumb missed the calf
And hit poor old Alf
Who jumped over the moon, only higher.
To brand, take an iron bar
And heat it red hot in the far
And throw down a calf
And then with a laugh
Singe his pore little rear.
Vegetarians who tweet
Scoff at all red meat
They gain their protein
Ingesting black beans
Their gassiness smells real sweet?
Clyde hunkered down on his heels
And suddenly broke out in squeals
The spurs he’d forgotten
Went clean through his bottom
Now he stands when taking his meals.
There once was a Vegan named Vance
Who assumed a belligerent stance
“Bugs,” he said,
“Sure ain’t red.”
Now he eats only flies and ants.
A heel fly badly off course
Found the nose of a lone cowboy’s horse;
The horse took offence
And hither and hence
Flew the cowboy with words rather coarse.
The ranchwoman got out her jars,
And peeled and pickled for hours
Which made her so tired
She thought she’d expired,
But revived after nine whiskey sours.
Should a vegetarian die
In a coffin he will lie
Although he’s never
Eaten red meat … or tried.
Though little in life is for sure
Three things on the ranch will endure
Sticky mud to your thighs
Ugly bugs every size
And a steady supply of manure.
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