12/17/2025
Here’s a story I wrote about Christmas in Cowboy poetry.
A Christmas Story in Cowboy rhyme
It was Christmas eve on the prairie, all the cowpunchers were settin round the fire under a stary sky.
One of them drags up a scraggly little tree and each of them begins to add decorations. One ties a ribbon in the tree; he got it from his sweetheart the last time they were together.
Another one brings out a brightly colored piece of paper; written on it was a letter he got from his maw and pa.
Still another digs in his bed roll and finds an old bell he picked up out of the street in the last town he was in.
One had even kept a gold foil wrapper from a chocolate bar he got the last time he was in town.
One by one each puncher finds something to decorate the scraggly little tree with, at last it reminds each of them of the trees they decorated when they were just kids.
The old trail boss clears his throat and begins to tell the story of Christmas in his own poetic way.
I tip my hat to the Good Lord above—
Out here on these plains, reckoned with faith and love.
With respect to the Maker who painted sky and sod,
Let me spin you a yarn ‘bout the Christ child and God.
Once upon a trailhead, man and woman roamed free,
God handed ‘em the reins and said, “All this is yours to see.
But steer clear of just one tree—its fruit is not for eatin.
For at the moment that you do, by death you will be beaten.”
That ol’ snake, slick as river rock, sidled up to Eve,
Whisperin’ sweet nothings, and plannin’ to deceive.
“Y’all won’t die,” he hissed, “just take a little bite—
You’ll see with God’s own eyes, wise and bright as daylight.”
Eve took that fruit, handed Adam a slice;
In one dusty moment, innocence paid the price.
Suddenly they knew shame, and when the Good Lord came around,
They hid themselves in the brush, afraid that He might frown.
God called ‘em out, heard Adam’s excuse,
Then Eve blamed the serpent for cuttin’ them loose.
The Lord laid it plain—snake cursed to crawl low,
Eve would bear in pain, and Adam toil and sow.
So there’s the root of our trouble, out under this big sky—
Why we need a mendin’, why we all cry.
But hope rides in quiet, like dawn upon the land:
A humble child is born by God’s divine plan.
Bethlehem’s stable, no room at the inn,
A child is born, swaddlin’ clothes wrapped Him.
Out on the prairie shepherds watched their sheep.
To guard and keep em’ safe, not a single one did sleep.
A bit of time goes by and a star did light the sky.
Wise men journeyed from afar guided there by.
Gold, frankincense and myrrh in saddlebags all stacked,
Great and precious gifts for the Christ child neatly packed.
Old Herod got sour, threatened by the Word,
But the child lay peaceful—greatest story ever heard.
This Savior rode in gentle, showed us God’s face,
Sacrificed Himself—amazing grace.
He bridged the wide canyon between heaven and dirt,
Gave every lost soul a fresh, clean shirt.
So don’t forget this gift, etched deep in the sod—
It’s a trail-map to heaven, signed and sealed by God.
And take not for granted the Saviors sacrifice, it was for you and me that He paid the price.
That my dear friends is the Greatest gift ever given,
Sent to you and me, straight from Heaven.
