Another Wrong Fedora

What I really want

is to stand there hitched with the other bays
outside that one saloon in all those B Westerns.
None of that Trigger or Champion stuff, you understand―
running like hell every third scene,
lugging all that silver around. Who needs it?
The only time those guys get to walk
is when the Hero strokes his pearl-handled guitar
and yodels at the back of the poor beast's head.
And who wants to stand there
braced, waiting, and ready
for some ten gallon fool
in a tooled leather girdle
to jump him from behind
or land on him like an avalanche?
Jesus. My back. The knees.

 

I'll just be one of the herd, thanks.
I'd move a little, shift my weight
from hoof to hoof,
flick away the occasional fly,
and have it made.
There are those chase scenes
but they don't look so bad.
I mean, they only last a few seconds.
They might even be fun.
They probably take turns,
first chaser, then chased.
And the food on location is great. All you can eat.

 

But you know what I think
would really be cool?
To look up on the screen some night,
nonchalantly nuzzle my date, and say,
"I'm in the next scene."
Or, "That's not really Tex.
They used a bag of oats there."
Now I'll just bet with carrots like that
you'd get better than a goodnight whinny
when you trot that filly back to her stall.