On the elk hunts that I guided, no liquor was allowed.
But now and then a flask slipped through
and a hunter would get plowed.

As I was riding down the trail, a feller came in sight.
He seemed to stagger as he walked
and didn’t seem quite right.

As he stumbled through the forest, he dragged a rope behind.
I asked if he was injured?
He said that he was fine.

As he drew nearer to me, my nose sensed his affliction.
He smelled of evil spirits
and had trouble with his diction.

His speech was slurred and labored, as he tried to tell his tale
Of the quandary he was having
 as he lumbered down the trail.

He said that he was just confused and really at a loss.
“I don’t know if I’ve found a rope,
 or have I lost my hoss?”


© by Russ Westwood.
Used with the author’s permission.