Posted on 03/09/2011 7:59:45 AM PST by jazminerose
This is what Democrats mean when they wail about Draconian budget cuts being proposed by Republicans. Their leader, Harry Reid defined the debate perfectly when he simpered about the potential loss of taxpayer funding for a cowboy poetry museum.
Perhaps a cowboy poetry museum is a worthy addition to the community. That’s the wrong focus. The issue with any government funded program isn’t whether someone benefits from it. We have to ask whether the Constitution allows it.
Republicans have done a lousy job of defining the issue. Rather than point out that there is no Constitutional basis for most government programs, they get sucked into arguments about the merits of government programs.
If indeed the world needs a cowboy poetry museum–and who am I to say it doesn’t–it should be awash in private funding.
But, that isn’t really the core of the matter. We expect liberals to want to waste tax payer money on nonsensical or downright destructive feel good programs. Republicans should be taking the lead and begin the process of defunding programs not supported by the Constitution.
Had we done that all along, our economy would be just fine. And our culture would be far less putrified.
(Joy Tiz is the author of Obamanutz: a Cult Leader Takes the White House)
all I need is a “common defence”
Draconian budget cuts is something that never happens.
Museum? I thought it was a festival?
‘Republicans have done a lousy job of defining the issue. Rather than point out that there is no Constitutional basis for most government programs,...’
The reason is the only difference between main line republicans and tards is the speed at which they want to drive over the cliff. In short theres little substantive ideological difference between the two. This is why nothing changes when the party majority in Congress changes. The only group who can change this is the electorate. If they will wake up, pay attention and refuse RINOs and tards then the beatings will stop. Until then prepare for more of the same. Its not rocket science!
Here lies Lester Moore, four slugs from a .44, No Les, No More.
It’s not that the poetry would not exist.
The poets would not exist.
Harry Reid would kill them?
...and here my son is just about to graduate from Cowboy Poet College, too...
Those EVIL, heartless republicans are going to destroy his dream!!
;-)
We can head for that precipice at 99 mph, or at 98.5 mph — and remember, it’s your DUTY as a citizen to vote for one or the other!
/s
He said that tens of thousands of people would not exist..that must mean that cowboy poetry is some sort of mating ritual in Nevada.
Defund all collectives. Let them live or die on their own.
LOL....Okay I live outside town so let me help straighten it out. There is the annual "Cowboy Poetry Festival" every January. It last a week and there's shows, music, food. Then there's the Western Folk-life center which does get money from the Arts foundation and in turn help support the festival. And then you have the Northeastern Nevada Museum in town too but I don't know if they get any money. I've lived here ten years and have never gone to the festival....not my thing, but the museum is very cool.
I know a working cowboy who is quite a poet as well, and makes the circuit every year, or at least a few of the events.
I'd rather fund this than crucifixes in urine any day, but there is no Constitutional authority to fund either.
The Ballad of Irving- Frank Gallop
He was short and fat, and rode out of the West
With a Mogen David on his silver vest.
He was mean and nasty right clear through,
Which was kinda weird, ‘cause he was yellow too.
They called him Irving.
Big Irving.
Big, short Irving.
Big, short, fat Irving.
The hundred and forty-second fastest gun in the West.
He came from the old Bar Mitzvah spread,
With a 10-gallon yarmulke on his head.
He always followed his mother’s wishes,
Even on the range he used two sets of dishes.
Irving.
Big, fat Irving.
Big sissy Irving.
The hundred and forty-second fastest gun in the West.
A hundred and forty-one could draw faster than he,
But Irving was looking for one forty-three.
Walked into Sol’s Saloon like a man insane,
And ordered three fingers of two cents plain.
Irving.
Big, fat Irving.
Big sport Irving.
The hundred and forty-second fastest gun in the West.
One day Bad Max happened into town.
His aim was to shoot fat Irving down.
Bad Max said, “Draw, and draw right now!”
And Irving drew, drew a picture of a cow.
Irving.
Big, fat Irving.
Big gunfighter Irving.
The hundred and forty-second fastest gun in the West.
The James Boys was comin’ on a train at first sun,
And the town said, “Irving, we need your gun.”
When that train pulled in at the break of dawn,
Irving’s gun was there, but Irving was gone.
Irving.
Big, fat Irving.
Big help, Irving.
The hundred and forty-second fastest gun in the West.
Well, finally Irving got three slugs in the belly.
It was right outside the Frontier Deli.
He was sittin’ there twirlin’ his gun around,
And butterfingers Irving gunned himself down!
Irving.
Big, fat Irving.
Big dum-dum Irving.
Big dum-dum dead Irving.
The hundred and forty-second fastest gun in the West.
Really.
Let me count the ways... NOT.
Great title. I went to the Poet Website and found we are paying for all kinds of things at this festival besides poetry. Geez, can’t people pay their own way for anything????
http://www.westernfolklife.org/site1/index.php/25th-Gathering.html
As in "Git along little doggerel, and putcher Cowboy Poet Museum in a little room next to the rest room at a feed store... at Harry Reid's personal expense."
Oprime número dos por la poesía vaquera.
Cowboy Poet Frank Butler to his sweetheart Annie Oakley.
Didn't he drown in a fall from a barge on the marge of Lake LeBarge?
Cowboy Poetry began and should have been ended by law with the epic poem,
"The Face on the Bar Room Floor."
'Twas a balmy summer evening
And a goodly crowd was there,
That well nigh filled Joes' barroom
At the corner of the square.
As songs and witty stories
Came through the open door,
A vagabond crept slowly in
And posed upon the floor.
“Where did it come from?” someone said,
“The wind has blown it in.”
“What does it want?” another cried,
“Some whiskey, rum or gin?”
Here Toby, sic’ em,
If your stomach is equal to the work,
I wouldn't touch him with a fork,
He's filthy as a Turk.
This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace.
In fact, he smiled as though he thought
He had struck the proper place.
Come boys, I know there's kindly hearts
Among so good a crowd;
To be in such good company
Would make a deacon proud.
Give me a drink, that’s what I want.
I'm out of funds you know, when I had cash to treat the gang,
This lad was never slow. What? You laugh as though you think,
This pocket never held a sou,
I once was fixed as well, my boys,
As any of you.
There thanks, that’s braced me nicely.
God Bless you one and all. Next time I pass this good saloon,
I'll make another call.
Give you a song? No, I can't do that.
My singing days are past.
My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out,
And my lungs are going fast.
Aye, give me another whiskey and I'll tell you what to do
I'll tell you a funny story and in fact I'll promise two.
That I was ever a decent man,
Not one of you would think,
But I was, some four or five years back.
Say, give me another drink.
Fill'er up, Joe, I want to put some life
Into this old frame.
Such little drinks, to a bum like me are miserably tame.
Five fingers, that's the scene, and corking and whiskey too,
Well, here's luck boys, and landlord,
My best respects to you.
You’ve treated me pretty kindly,
And I'd like to tell you how,
I came to be this dirty sap, you see before you now.
As I told you once, I was a man
With muscle, frame and health,
But for a blunder, ought have made considerable wealth.
I was a painter, not one that daubed on bricks or wood,
But an artist, and for my age I was rated pretty good,
I worked hard at my canvas, and bidding fair to rise,
And gradually I saw, the star of fame before my eyes.
I made a picture, perhaps you've seen,
It's called the “Chase of Fame.”
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds
And added to my name.
It was then I met a woman, now come the funny part;
With eyes that petrified my brain, and sank into my heart.
Why don't you laugh it's funny, that the vagabond you see
could ever have a woman and expect her love for me.
But it was so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine, I thought I was in heaven.
Boys did you ever see a girl, for whom your soul you'd give,
With a form like Venus De Milo, too beautiful to live,
With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, And a wealth of chestnut hair?
If so, it was she, for boys there never was, another half so fair.
I was working on a portrait, One afternoon in May,
Of a fair haired boy, a friend of mine, Who lived across the way.
My Madeline admired him, And much to my surprise,
She said she'd like to know the lad, Who had such dreamy eyes.
She didn't take long to find him, Before the month had flown,
My friend had stolen my darling,
And I was left alone.
And ere a year of misery had passed above my head.
That jewel I treasured so, had tarnished and was dead.
That's why I took to drink boys. Why, I never see you smile,
I thought you'd be amused boys, and laughing all the while.
Why, what's the matter friend? There's a teardrop in your eye.
Come, laugh like me. It's only babes and women that should cry.
Say boys, if you give me just another whiskey and I'll be glad,
I'll draw right here the picture, of the face that drove me mad.
Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score;
You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor.
Another drink and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began
To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.
Then, as he placed another lock upon that shapely head,
With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture — dead!
Disclaimer: Opinions posted on Free Republic are those of the individual posters and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Free Republic or its management. All materials posted herein are protected by copyright law and the exemption for fair use of copyrighted works.