| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Down on the Ol’ Bar-G | | By Phil LeNoir |
| | From “Western Poems”
THE BOSS he took a trip to France— | |
| Down on the ol’ Bar-G. | |
| He left his gal to run the ranch, | |
| Down on the ol’ Bar-G. | |
| She wouldn’t let us chew nor cuss, | 5 |
| Had to keep slicked up like a city bus, | |
| So round-up time was u-nan-i-muss | |
| Down on the ol’ Bar-G. | |
| |
| Our round-up cook, he soon got th’u, | |
| Down on the ol’ Bar-G. | 10 |
| Found his clay pipe right in the stew, | |
| Down on the ol’ Bar-G. | |
| But when we let that feller go | |
| We married grief an’ we married woe, | |
| For the gal opined she’d bake the dough, | 15 |
| Down on the ol’ Bar-G. | |
| |
| Wisht you’d seen her openin’ meal | |
| Down on the ol’ Bar-G. | |
| We all blinked twict—seemed plumb unreal, | |
| Down on the ol’ Bar-G. | 20 |
| We had figs an’ fudge an whipped-up pru’in, | |
| An’ angel cake all dipped in goo-in, | |
| “My Gawd!” said Tex, “my stomick’s ruint”— | |
| Down on the ol’ Bar-G. | |
| |
| We quit that job an’ cook-ladee | 25 |
| Down on the ol’ Bar-G. | |
| An’ pulled our freight for the lone prair-ee, | |
| Down on the ol’ Bar-G. | |
| For out on the range we could chew an’ cuss | |
| An’ git real mean an’ bois-ter-uss, | 30 |
| Whar apron-strings they couldn’t rope us | |
| Down on the ol’ Bar-G. | | | | |
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