Poetry

I'm not normally a fan of poetry. However, somewhere I came across this cowboy poem in a place where the person pointing it out thought it was redolent of Brokeback Mountain.

Be that as it may, it touches me somewhere and I think it might touch you too.

Jeff and Joe. A True Incident of Creede Camp, Colorado by William Devere

Knowed Joe Simmons? Course I did.
Knowed him 'fore he up an' slid
Cross the range that blustery day.
Did he slide? Well I should say!
Not the way you mean it, though,
Up the hill we toted Joe,
And we laid him 'neath the rocks.
Death had called the turn, "Jack Box."
'Fore he cashed in Jeff Smith come,
Asked if nothin' could be done.
Jeff, yer see, thought well of Joe—
Knowed him thirty years or so,
Pal'd together down below.
Joe liked Jeff and Jeff liked Joe,
An' through all the changin' years,
Sheered each other's smiles and tears.

Worked together, tooth and nail,
Punchin' cattle up the trail;
Dealt the old thing; tackled bluff;
Each one blowed the other's stuff,
An' when one got in the hole,
T'other just dug up the roll.
So the gang all come to know
Joe liked Jeff an' Jeff liked Joe.

When the big excitement came
Every man that played a game,
Square or sure, that could succeed,
Packed his grip and went to Creede.
Gamblers, miners, suckers, marks,
spieler, macers, bunco sharks,
Men of money, men of greed—
Every one fetched up in Creede.
An' with all this human show
To the front came Jeff and Joe,
Opened up the "Orleans Club,"
Slept on tables, cooked their grub,
An' commenced to "cop the dough,"
Till old Death showed up for Joe.
Jeff dropped in to see the end
Of his staunch old pal an' friend,
For, yer see, he wished to know
The last wishes of poor Joe.

"Hallo, Joe, yer gainin' ground,"
Jeff remarked, a lookin' round,
But Joe answered: "Yes, the change
Soon'll take me 'cross the range.
But, old pal, before I go
Just you answer, yes or no,
If I ever throwed a friend,
Didn't I stay to the end
Through the toughest of the tough?
Did I ever take a bluff?
Did I, through my whole life long,
Ever do a friend a wrong?
Ever treat a poor cuss mean?
Haint I anteed my last bean?
Can you show me airy place
Where I weakened in the race?
Tell me, Jeff—my race is run"
And Jeff answered: "Nary one."

"Well," said Joe, "I'm glad of that;
It comes easy to stand pat.
When you know that you've done right,
Even Death itself looks bright.
So, old boy, don't preach or pray;
Keep the gospel sharks away—
It's no use to call them late
Just to boost me through the gate.
Let the boys just gather 'round
When I am planted in the ground,
From each bottle knock the neck,
Fill each glass with Pommery Sec;
Let each staunch friend drink this toast:
'Here's to old Joe Simmons' ghost!'
In hereafter, if there be
Such a place for you and me,
Let the gang, all hand in hand,
A jolly, good an' jovial band,
Open out, an' all in line,
Sing together 'Auld Lang Syne.'"
Jeff said: "Joe, it shall be done."
And Joe answered: "Let her come!"

Maybe you don't think that we
Kept in all sincerity
Jeff's last promise to poor Joe!
Up the hill through blinding snow
Came the wagon with the box.
Up the mountain, 'round the rocks,
John Keneavy, Hugh Mohan
An' old boy Jeff led the van;
Up the mountain, through the snow,
Till they reached the grave of Joe.
There with head uncovered all,
Jeff Smith opened up the ball
An' asked if anybody there
Could say Joe Simmons wasn't square,
Or ever yet a wrong had done
To friend. All answered: "Nary one."

"Well," Jeff replied, "This is the end
Of old Joe Simmons, my best friend.
I promised him I'd do my best,
An' with the gang lay him to rest.
Now fill your glasses, fall in line,
An' sing 'The Days of Auld Lang Syne.'"
They drank and sang. The pure white snow
Fell softly on the grave of Joe.

An' as for Jeff—well, I may say,
No better man exists to-day.
I don't mean good the way you do—
No, not religious—only true.
True to himself, true to his friend;
Don't quit or weaken to the end.
An' I can swear, if any can,
That Jeff will help his fellow man.
An' here I thank him—do you see?
For kindness he has shown to me.
An' This I'll say, when all is o'er,
An' Jeff has crossed to t'other shore,
I only hope that you and me
May stand as good a chance as he.

The big Book says—that is I think
It says—that "whoso giveth drink
And food to even one of these,"
The Saviour he is sure to please.
An' sky-pilots say this is so,
But then, of course, I do not know
That either they or I can learn
A sinner how to call the turn.
But this I do know, every time,
(An' you can bet I'm dead in line,)
That whoso giveth up his pelf
For charity will please himself.
I've heard it said, time and agin,
That charity can cover sin.
But then, of course, I do not know
If this applies to Jeff an' Joe.
I know that I'm a wicked chap
Of course, an' I don't care a rap
About these Christians—do you see?—
That's catalogued as "Pharisee,"
Or who repent on the last day,
Then get their wings and soar away.
I'd rather (if I was allowed)
Fall in with the poor sinners' crowd.
I am not stuck on those that teach
Or who don't practice what they preach.
No man can tell me where I'll go
When I cash in my checks, and so
I know that I am prone to sin
But when I'm called on to cash in
I hope I'll have an equal show
With sinners just like Jeff an' Joe.

Creede Camp, Colorado, March 27th, 1892.