Howdy, friend! Welcome to Homegrown, I'm your host, R.P. Smith. Happy 159th birthday, Nebraska.
In honor of Statehood Day, I have composed a brand new poem. It is a bit breezy, so I'd best get with it.
After 1867, when Nebraska got its start, 93 counties climbed aboard their names would show some heart.
Where the muse has led is a challenge to explain. He twisted truth and re-wrote history,
shrouded by both time and mystery, but I've wrestled with the beast, so I'm to blame.
When traveling across the frontier, mild and clay and stuck in first gear,
needing stat and drugs to lower strife, poking along they were soon learning,
just to keep the furnace burning, they would need to face the rock-hard coal facts of life.
Arthur Adams journeyed long ago to hunt the big brown buffalo. His butler Thomas proudly carried
his banner. Over the hills of sand his troops did chase, and with a boon his cannon's race,
success would not be granted in this manner. I strived not to be a nathere. The
Andrey Phelps had not a prior, with the red willow sticks of Otto drumming.
Cast behavior would be their downfall, gospel truth, and hazing would bring recall.
The antelope had fled when heard them coming. When Hitchcock called Pony Perkins Scotts Bluff,
while Bill proved himself wise enough to evade a moral dilemma leading to a duel,
along with his pal Richard's son, whose piercing glare would often stun the run to Dakota
proved him the fool. Bill desired to not be sued. A cat named Garfield was pursued,
longing to be a faithful sword. His plan did not lack merit. Wisdom led Bill to flee the
barrack. On his wits he does to avoid being skewered. I will take no life, a loop to evade,
in a hall of justice his case was made, but just before he sonders out. Knowing the crowd was
thirsting, his call to fill more mugs applause at Burston. Choke cherry wine freely flowed about.
Box butte, Bill knew he should avoid. The mighty Cheyenne were annoyed. They thought him a bit of a
gym dandy, through hard knocks and bloody knuckles efforts to dodge being burnt out, brought no
chuckles. He would need a saline solution before Monday. A troop of carnies trafers the plain
wheelerine, a webster of Keith and pain, the bait of Harlan and Hooker soon proved lacking.
From a shanty of cedar and Lincoln logs, their greedy plan went to the dogs,
when Sheriff Jefferson Johnson sent them packing. His twelve gauge shotgun toward their backside,
in the valley they would hide. Kimball requests were denied. There would be no nance of pardon.
Early laundry they were washing turn. Back to Douglass they would run. In passing they
Sherman, Custars, Garden, they would kip a haw across the draw, and till they strained their
Nima haw. The pain took hold. They were mad as son. A steamer on the plat was crossing,
from New York on its way to Dawson. The motley crew were quickly a shared in. Logan left his
hogan. He was a masterful landcaster. His confidence had waned in the fear of a disaster. A conflict
still raging to this day. For Howard preferred Hamilton, while McPherson wished to raise
Lamb again. Southwesterly spear checker made his way. Search hard for a county name excluded.
If there's rider, it has eluded. The poet going by the name of RP. Franklin, my Dixon,
I do not give a darn, but for additions to this yarn, you can write your own ending with a Sarpy.
Thanks for riding along on Homegrown this morning. Hoping that the lower blesses you real
good today. That he is raining on your place. And that her happy trails cross again soon.
I'm RP Smith. I'm RP Smith. I'm RP Smith. I'm RP Smith. I'm RP Smith. I'm RP Smith. I'mrophy,
