I readied for the show and bought a brand new George Strait shirt.
I figured anything would help, for darn sure couldn’t hurt.
I’d memorized my poems. They were imprinted in my brain.
But when I stepped up on the stage, not one word could I claim.
The rhymes were all forgotten and no rhythm for a beat.
My eyes were full of sweat from all the sunshine’s glaring heat.
You see, the emcee of the program asked a month or so ago,
“Would you like to be a part of a cowboy poetry show?”
I told her I’d be nervous but would give it my best try.
She said, “I don’t mind nervous, just don’t run off the stage and cry.”
The audience was fidgeting. Their eyes were growing wide.
The crowd was prob’ly thinking, “This poor cowboy’s gonna cry.”
But one cowboy told me earlier, “Don’t worry you’ll forget.
Make sure your book is by your side. There’ll be no need to fret.”
Well sure enough my poems were laying right in front of me.
Someone had placed them all face up. Just right for me to see.
I cleared my throat. I stood up straight. My confidence was sure.
I stepped up to the microphone. My stage fright was no more.
But the first word from my mouth was almost Julia Child height.
So I brought it down, and then I sounded just like Barry White.
I guess I should have practiced on my voice a whole lot more.
‘Cuz my discontented audience was stepping out the door.
Right then I wondered if Shakespeareans ever had stage fright?
Then someone from behind me said, “Please give it up tonight!”
I cut my cowboy routine short. I guess it had some flaws.
When I stepped down off the stage, there was no one to give applause.
I finally saw a friendly face. My son had stuck around.
I thought I better ask him as he looked up from the ground.
“I guess I’m wondering how I did? At first I thought I croaked.”
He looked at me and shook his head. “Well, Dad, I think you choked.”
