He sometimes turns his horse's tail
Wrong-ways to a cow.
He still can't tie a bowline,
Though I have showed him how.

Once he took a brace and bit
And drilled it in the dirt.
He left his boots out in the rain,
And yonder lies his shirt.

He tried to take his saddle off,
Forgetting the back cinch,
And somehow kinked the cable
On my calf-pulling winch.

Once he filled my water jug
Plumb full of gasoline.
Wore a groove into my grindstone.
At school, said words obscene.

He lost a brand-new crescent wrench.
Nicked a new hoof nipper.
Took my pinchers from their pocket,
And " fixed " my new chap zipper.

Spilled grease upon my welding rod.
Broke eggs in my felt hat.
Then in the lot at weaning time,
Sicked the dog upon the cat.

When we were corralling cattle, once,
He met us on his trike.
Scratched his name upon my saddle
With a marlinespike.

My boy has done 'er all, my friends.
He's constantly in trouble.
Yet, folks who knew me as a kid
Insist that he's my double.

Their recollection's faulty.
I dispute it with a curse.
I wasn't like him, growing up.
I was a whole lot worse.
                               Poetry by   ©   Wallace McRae