Cowboy Poetry

 These guns I have are mine alone. Won’t ever give ‘em up. Without my guns I’d prob’ly feel like one defenseless pup.
Today this weekly poem of mine is slightly personal. I’ve owned a gun since twelve years old. For sure no arsenal.
When I was young my father told me, “Time to buy a gun.” He purchased my new rifle. Gift from Father to his son.
He taught me, “Your new rifle isn’t meant to be a toy. If you’ll heed to some instruction your new gun will bring you joy.”
I enrolled in Hunter’s Safety. Dale Barney taught the class. He spoke with firm conviction. Not a person dared harass.
He showed me how to hold a gun while walking in the field. Said, “Never take a blind man’s shot. Just keep those brown eyes peeled.”
And then he made it very clear. “Hold on to this new gun. Take care of it till you’ve grown old. Then pass it to your son.”
Well I didn’t wait, till I’d grown old, to pass my rifle on. I gave it to my oldest son. And now he’s grown and gone.
That day was thirty years ago. The time has turned its page. Our rifle would be passed on ‘cuz my grandson was of age.
My son called me this morning. Said, “I’ve passed our rifle on. My oldest owns the rifle. Now, two generations gone.”
So, my grandson has the rifle. And like ours it’s his first gun. He said, “I can’t believe I get to be the lucky one!”
Would I ever tell my grandson that his rifle has to go? The answer would be never! That’s a promise you should know.
Now I speak with firm conviction ‘cuz I’ve learned a thing or two. When we’re talking ‘bout our rifles, please don’t tell me what to do!