On stick horses we rode the oil field trails,
Poking endless red ant beds.
Young'uns of the Texas soil,
Red Ryders cocked for spitting lead.
Youth had plenty of double-dog dares,
Smoking grapevine, climbing trees,
Running wild in sock-less boots,
Escaping startled angry bees.
Down railroad tracks in search of ghost,
Until we heard the whistle.
Whipped our horses into a frenzy,
Through briar vine and thistle.
Flushing terror from darkened dens,
Cornbread running low.
Saddle bags are empty,
Time for us to go.
We hitched our stick horses at the foot of the bed,
So, they wouldn't run away.
Kissed the dog, said our prayers,
Time to hit the hay.
I remember laughter from the porch,
About our lawless ways.
Leaving paths of fury,
Across those “good old days.”