
I confess, the only good thing about a Brussels sprout is to draw it . . . no matter how cooked, I just cannot enjoy them. Oh, well.

I confess, the only good thing about a Brussels sprout is to draw it . . . no matter how cooked, I just cannot enjoy them. Oh, well.

― William Shakespeare
I am far behind on Inktober 2021, but the brain still works a bit, as does pen and ink.

by Baxter Black
There’s a hundred years of history,
And a hundred before that,
All gathered in the thinkin’
Goin’ on beneath this hat.
And back behind his eyeballs
And pumpin’ through his veins,
Is the ghost of every cowboy
That ever held the reins.
Every coil in his lasso’s
Been thrown a million times,
His quite concentrations
Been distilled through ancient minds.
It’s evolution workin’
When silver scratches hide,
And a ghostly cowboy chorus
Fills his head and says ‘let’s ride’.
The cold flame burns within him
‘Till his skins as cold as ice,
And the dues he paid to get here
Are worth every sacrifice.
All the miles spent sleep drivin’
All the money down the drain,
All the ‘if I’s’ and ‘nearly’s’
All the bandages and pain.
All the female tears left dryin’
All the fever and the fight,
Are just a small down payment
On the ride he makes tonight.
It’s guts and love and glory,
One mortal’s chance at fame,
His legacy is rodeo,
And cowboy is his name.

Old I am, not looking great,
Sour as a pickle is my fate.
Thus I draw, by the hour,
Pickled pickles with pickly power.
Koshers, dills, gherkins, too;
Polish and German, to name a few.
And so for Inktober’s theme today
Is sour and then some, all the way!

This one put some pressure on me for an original approach. Pressure, to me, is often self-imposed. So, a pressure gauge is all you get today.