Ol’ Cess was just a simple soul;

   he never did a nasty thing.

Each Sunday morn he went to church

   and warbled loudly when they’d sing.

 

He read the Good Book ev’ry day

   and rode a straight and narrow trail.

He took a bath most ev’ry month,

   said grace at dinner without fail.

 

The boy was born Cesario,

   the son of Preacher Festus Poole,

but folks all called him Cess for short,

   a name he got ‘way back in school.

 

Well, Cess Poole went to town it seems

   with hands who rode for Rockin’ K.

They roped some steers and threw some bulls -

   a rodeo was held that day.

 

When day was done and twilight fell,

   they stopped in at the Golden Fleece.

They had a drink and played some cards,

   and never thought to break the peace.  

 

They thought that Cess would be just fine,
   and keep his straight and narrow way,
but drink became his nemesis
    that dreary, beery, fateful day.

​

The night wore on and with each hand,

   they passed a whiskey bottle ‘round.

Cess took a swig and felt the burn

   and swore that he was Glory bound!

 

But Lady Luck had smiled on Cess

   who seemed to win most ev’ry hand,

‘til Curly Bill turned up an ace,

   raked in the pot, and tried to stand.

 

“My gawsh!” he mumbled as he rose,

   “That rot-gut’s had its wicked way!

We’d better call it quits my friends

   and play again another day.”

 

Then Hackamore McCall stood up

   and reeled toward the bat-winged door,

While Shorty James and Snuffy Clark

   both stumbled ‘cross the bar-room floor.

 

Poor Cess just sat there mesmerized

   and cussed his sorry turn of fate,

but while he thought of life and such

   the boys had pranks to contemplate.

 

They found a sturdy line-back dun,

   a fine example of the breed -

just like the one that Cess rode in -

   and hitched him where he tied his steed.

 

Cess stumbled out and climbed aboard

   and never guessed a blessed thing.

His brain was fogged by demon drink

   with fuzzy thoughts that hooch can bring.

 

The horse knew something wasn’t right -

   the rider up was not his own.

He tossed his head and sun-fished some

   and tried to have the cowboy thrown.

 

But Cess held on and off they rode

   to catch the crew ahead of them.

They crow-hopped down a dusty trail

   beside the range of Circle M.

 

And there beneath the eve’nin’ stars,
   the Circle M remuda grazed.

And not a wrangler was in sight,
   a fact that left the boys amazed.

 

About this time Ol’ Curly Bill

   thought it would be just so much fun

to drive the mounts of Circle M

    across the rim, down to the run.

 

So off they went and hazed the herd

   along the fence and through the gate.

They pushed them to the rocky rim

   and there they paused to cogitate.

  

Then here came Cess, a-bouncin’ hard,

   the line-back dun all out of whack.

His horse would hop and then he’d shake

   to get that creature off his back!

 

Well, that was all it really took

   to spook the whole durned nervous band.

They bumped the waddies off the edge

   and rolled ‘em down through rocks and sand.  

 

As Cess Poole sat there all perplexed,

   he heard a sudden rifle crack!

The hands from Circle M had come

   to take their stolen horses back!

 

They rounded up the battered crew

   and lashed them to a cottonwood,

until the sheriff hauled them off

   and swore to end their livelihood.

 

The lawman called the woeful bunch

   a rustler’s gang, undoubtedly,

 and Cess Poole was a horse thief too,

   deserving of a hangman’s tree.

 

A trial was held with not much said

   ‘cuz all could tell a cowboy prank.

The waddies were just actin’ up

    from all the whiskey that they drank.

​

The jury grinned, their verdict swift,

   “Not guilty,” was their final word.

They knew the bunch was havin’ fun

   when they drove off their neighbor’s herd.

  

The judge was stern, glared down at them,

   amazed they managed to survive.

 “Well, this should teach you boys,” he said,

   “don’t ever, ever drink and drive!”