After dogging his share of fractious steers
He hoped to spread some bunkhouse cheer.
He leaned into the stinging breeze
And dreamed of making a Christmas tree.

He cogitated on the perfect plan,
He’d plant a branch in a coffee can,
Then a foot of ribbon and a shotgun shell
Would help to cast a Christmas spell.

And while he rode with hat pulled low
His collar turned up against the snow,
He composed a likely Christmas verse
For those who counted this year the worst.

“We’ve ridden some rough and weary miles
There ain’t no reason for Christmas smiles;
Cause we know this year has rubbed us low,
And I can’t say I’ve got much to show.
But I hope you’ll accept some Christmas glee
From a cartridge in a bare tree.”