This old hat

cowboy hat

The other day I considered, was it time to buy a new hat? And one that
would make me look skinny. I’ve heard of miracles like that.

I perused the cowboy hats on the wall. There were black ones and gray
ones alike. I wanted to leave with a brand new hat but would soon hear
about the price hike.

I picked out a Stetson, at least the right name. And pointed it out to the
clerk. He snatched it so fast, it made my head swim. I was thinking he
might be a jerk.

He said, “You sure you want this hat? It’s got a hefty price.” I asked how
much. He said, “Three hundred!” Didn’t have to tell me twice!

The doggone clerk was wearing his smirk. Said, “Your hat’s a sad sad
story.” But I won’t call him jerk, ‘cuz he sounded more like a snollygoster in

This hat of mine was given to me some fifty years to date. A 10X Stetson
from my folks, in hopes I’d graduate.

My hat ain’t got a fancy shape like Yellowstone or Gus. Not every hat is
Hollywood. So pardner what’s the fuss?

This hat has kept my head warm from the frigid winter days. And blocks out all
the sunburn from the sunshine’s hottest rays.

I remember the day when old Jake tossed me high. I came slamming hard to the
ground. But my hat stayed in place. There is no disgrace for a lid that keeps
your head sound.

Now the top of my head ain’t seen a hair’s thread since forty-odd years passed
me by. But my hat don’t complain. It stays just the same, slightly cocked
there above my right eye.

To my daughter’s despair, I wore my hat to see my grandson born. Yet I did take
it off when Grandma passed, hat in hand we all did mourn.

I’m wearing my old hat again. How long will it be around? Each morning it’s still
on the hook. I know where it can be found.

I’ll dust the dirt and grime off from my Stetson cowboy hat. And treat it much
more kindly than a plain old head hat rack.

It’s more than just a hat. My Stetson’s full of history. It don’t matter ‘bout its
looks, my hat is good enough for me.

So with luck for years I’ll keep this hat. It’s a classic at this place. ‘Cuz it fits down
snug, guarding my mug. Yes, I think it adds grit to my face.


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Bryce Angell’s father was an outfitter and guide for 35 years, and Bryce was there to shoe and care for the horses and help him do the cooking. Bryce is from Idaho and still rides into the Tetons, Yellowstone and surrounding areas. His poems are mostly of personal experience.



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