He has his mask across his eyes;
His chaps ride firmly on his thighs;
His horse is fed; his lasso’s coiled;
He twirls his six-gun, cleaned and oiled;
His sombrero rides just a-tilt–
Authentic, this lad, to the hilt!
He tugs the kerchief he has knotted,
And fiercely frowns; the loot is spotted!
Then off he rides, but not for far–
He’s raiding Mother’s cookie-jar.
by Ray Romine Monday, November 10, 1952
