This poem wasn’t meant to be a full-fledged poem. I had just started scribbling things down as I had been experiencing a touch of writer’s block. And once I started, I couldn’t stop…
The Pioneer
Patrick J. McCallister, to seek out both his fame
And fortune in the old Wild West, to Dodge City came.
At once all knew this stranger was, in their tongue, a greenhorn,
For his smile before him went, his face was clean and shorn.
They watched as he, with suitcase held, went to buy a horse;
But, as he’d not much money yet, they saw him buy the worst
And sway-backed nag, an ornery thing, its joints a-stickin’ out
Like a bag of scrawny bones – jostlin’ all about.
They laughed and jeered: the saddle that he’d bought was old and thin:
Its padding had seen better days – but no one pitied him.
He was still a stranger, they come and go so fast;
And ’til they prove themself, folks just sit and watch ‘em pass.
He staked a claim outside of town – a place no one would want.
When asked the reason he didn’t move on to a better place, “I can’t,”
Said he, “My money’s gone.” But then his smile grew large and bright.
“But this is home to me, you see.” But still, it was a sight!
The ground had rocks as big as sinks and weeds grew everywhere.
The trees were sparse and scraggly, but it seemed he did not care.
The little stream that babbled by was enough, I guess, for one.
And soon his little shanty with its weedy roof was done.
Its walls were built of boulders that he’d labored from the ground.
And soon he came, all smiles again, and shoutin’: Gold was found!
Who knew the rocky, weedy place was situated thus
To have a stream downhill of mines, and laden with the stuff?
So it was they never more did laugh or joke or jeer
At Patrick J. McCallister; a geologist, I hear.
