"Nebraska Statehood" - Homegrown Ep. #1193

Howdy friend! Welcome to Homegrown, I'm your host, R.P. Smith. I want to thank the folks

they've checked in on us because of the fires in the area. We were not directly affected by the

nearest and most recent one, but until the Lord blesses our part of the world with some rain,

we're all just one spark away from a disaster. Thank you so much to the people that come together

and try to keep the flames from taking over. While preparing for Old West days, getting the

backside of Cavin and budgeting the last few bale of hay, I've been starting my day pretty early.

And when I don't have anything else on my mind, there's a silly poem that keeps haunting me.

My friend Don Schott warned me that it might never be completed, because I will always be thinking

of another way to incorporate a word, and he knows of what he speaks, because he has taken on

the same beast. We both ended up sharing our versions of poems that incorporate the

county names of our beloved state of Nebraska at the Nebraska cowboy portrait gathering that

has taken place in Valentine over the last couple days. Thanks for humoring me, and letting me

take another run at the statehood poem. Gage Douglas Dawson, Hitchcock,

sat out to tame the wide frontier, 30 pounds of clay on the wheelers would hold him in first gear,

along with Keith and Ken, not Greeley in moral mission, blame speaking their motives with a

purist, decoder bound to chase the buffalo, that beast had become a real bad hooker,

mad a sin and had crippled an old man from Texas, and then dispatched a tourist.

Shurken Stanton Mads and sailing solutions they would poke along the trail,

no Perkins film or stops Winthurston. Facing hard knocks, no-nance dedication would wane

through the haze they sonders on enthusiasm. First, the rock-horrid coal-facts of life failed

to squash the fire in the furnace. Scott's bluff spared Nate Thayer doubting Thomas from his

fellow-traverse sternness. Following the ruts of 49 or Howard Johnson, the merry band wish

a shared-in, the tracks across the plaque, took those with a different gospel, out the other end.

Grizzly Adams brought provisions, ham of ton, granting an ample supply to fill the void.

His butler, McPherson carried the banner through the valley, and an aboriginal orchestra

was employed. Sue played the flute, Cheyenne played the o-toe, joined by piercing lance casters

with red willow sticks of drumming. With Nakaio's cried out their warning Kippahaw,

the dundy chase which dodged, the ant-lope, and other game heard them coming.

The photographer for Custer, his box-butte of a camera and toe, never caught Garfield in a frame.

The shatterbugs brown English shepherd at the corner of Homesteaders Garden, was often

immortalized, marking his claim. Settlers lived in soddies for they had no deceit or trees for

Lincoln Logan. They hung butcher's photo in the hall above the catchy slogan. The dog named

after a faithful sewer and founding father, his aim was ever true, with the caption,

we are digging in this dry dirt, wishing white shittance peace on you. The last that does is the

first to die when cherry-brandy fuels a duel. Reverend Franklin stayed at Apani saved as

Apani earned, case closed, and heads would cool. The nox-headed carnies on refelps Harlan and

McPherson put down their guns no powder-burt, but bare knuckles, summa raw. The Duke of York,

King Richard's son, judging Thard Knox with Merrick of Queensborough rules, called the Bout

a Draw. No prize to be awarded by Auburn Herd-Princess Nima-Haw. This Arthur hopes to

Kimball a smile with his tale that loops its way through time, having Sherman Webster's working

for you to hear this merry rhyme. Written Jeffer's son by a rancher known as Arpy,

who invites you to wrestle with them, use, and write your own story with this Arpy.

Thanks for riding along on homegrown this morning, hoping that the Lord blesses you real good today,

and praying that he is raining on your place, and that her happy trails cross again soon. I'm Arpy Smith.