A finer education one could not have got,

Than to read the tales from this manly lot.

John Thorton and his canine Buck,

Martin Eden who in the end ran out of luck.

Baring fangs, flights and fights,

London told of the North, and those who lived afar.

 

Strapping on six shooters, rounding up cattle,

Men and women who road in the saddle.

Sackett, Bodrie, and Flint,

Men whose eyes held the glint.

If L’amour were alive today,

He would be scribing of cowboys of yesterday.

 

Hinges squeak, basements dark,

King looks deep into the soul of man.

A student of the craft,

one of its mightiest wizards.

Daring his constant readers to believe,

there are worlds beyond here and now.

 

If I could craft stories as these men did,

then the demon I could be rid.

Late at night, I hunch over and type,

Hoping to get the words set just right.

Someday, I hope, the public will note,

and in their footsteps –  I will follow.