I ain’t got no family,
so my buddies fill the gap
of a pretty wife who loves me,
an’ kiddies on my lap.
The ol’ bunkhouse is home to me—
it shelters best it can,
tho’ not like havin’ a real home,
but it serves this workin’ man.
When ranchin’ slows in fall,
an’ winter chills the ground,
wind is blowin’ thru’ the door
an’ snow piles all around,
It’s time to oil those bridles,
saddles an’ the like—
we huddle ‘round the woodstove,
an hear tall-tales from Ike.
Soon, Christmas Day is nearin’,
an’ we make each one a gift—
ain’t never somethin’ fancy,
but it gives a guy a lift.
We hang our socks on clothesline
stretched above the stove—
no hearth above a fireplace
with socks our mother wove.
Me an’ my friends celebrate
across this barren land.
We hoist a tree to decorate,
an’ do the best we can.
The lady of the ranch house,
bakes cookies, an’ a cake,
to bring to us on Christmas Eve
so we too can celebrate.
We remember on this wondrous day
the Lord brought forth His Son
so’s we could be forgiven
on this earth since life’s begun.
With no hats, we bow our heads,
an’ get ourselves set straight.
Each takes his turn a prayin’
‘bout sinfulness we hate.
‘Cause, we fellers use some language
of which we ain’t so proud,
an’ fight at Gin too often,
sometimes gittin’ awful loud.
We drinks a bit, an’ dances lots
in bars, an’ ol’ Grange halls,
chase the ladies now an’ then,
an Lordy, that ain’t all.
But on this day, our mamas
come back to our dim minds,
an’ we remember that small church
where our hearts was so entwined.
Where we’d hear there was an’ afterlife,
an’ pledge our sinful souls
to try an’ be like Jesus
in our daily life an’ goals.
It comes my turn for prayin’,
I clear my throat, an’ start
tryin’ to speak to the Father
with somethin’ from the heart…
I say, “Lord, if you’re listenin’
to this cowboy who’s dern rough,
I’m askin’ your forgiveness
an’ prayin’ that’s enough."
© 2010, Tamara Hillman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
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