Sadly, Southernfrau is no longer with us. Her stories are archived here for her friends to remember her by. Enjoy her legacy to Lancer.
Word Count 240
I’ve been thinking about how my spurs are a part of me,
A shiny pointed metal starburst, a rowel turning free.
Dressed in brown leather pants with a gun on my hip for survival,
The ringing tinkle of metal on metal announces my arrival.
Jingle Jingle Jingle the sound trails along at my heels,
A soft musical sound not like bells with loud peals.
Ching Ching Ching when I saunter about or pace,
The musical tempo mirrors the mood on my face.
DING! DING! DING! my angry feet stomps out the beat,
Another shouting match with Murdoch sends me into retreat.
Ping Ping Ping tiptoeing my way quietly down the hall,
Don’t want to wake the grouchy old man that is so tall.
Bing Bing Bing bouncing down the staircase to the great room,
Time to battle Scott at chess, he’s about to meet his doom.
Shush! Shush! Shush! not a single sound they will make,
When I sneak into the kitchen to sample Teresa’s chocolate cake.
A wise old cowboy once said “never sit on your spurs,”
You’ll like it as much as a horse likes a blanket with burrs.
If you sit on your spurs you’ll get his point in a hurry,
You’ll remember it next time, of that there’s no worry.
Yes, my spurs are a part of me, their tunes always ring true,
I have to strap them to my boots because that’s what cowboys do
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