Publisher’s note: We are delighted to present for you a poem Old Angus Goes A’Courtin’ a wonderful story by Nita Moore. We will publish weekly installments each Wednesday until complete. Today please enjoy part one …
Nita Moore enjoys writing poetry, historical fiction and (now that she’s a grandmother), children’s stories. Professionally, she is owner of Nita Moore Massage Therapy for more than 20 years. Originally from Horicon, daughter Don and Jeanez Miescke, she now lives in Fond du Lac.
Old Angus Goes A’Courtin’
© Nita Moore 2019
Part I
The bright morning after meeting fair widow Grace,
Old Angus rose early and ogled his face.
He ran a rough hand down the long scruffy pelt
That gnarled and twisted clear down to his belt.
There were foreign bits stuck in the hair of his beard;
And he got more disgusted the closer he peered.
Brown bits and twiggy bits and crumbs of peach pie!
And with horror he wondered if Grace might have spied
The details of an old man’s disheveled neglect.
Was he old? Was he really? He began to reflect.
“It’s been years, a coon’s age, since I seen my own face.
Would it better my chances with fair widow Grace?”
He spoke this out loud to the dog at his feet
Who nudged at his knee for a pet or a treat.
“We won’t know ‘til we try”, Angus muttered to himself
As he reached high, a’tip-toe, for the blade on the shelf.
“Nah, this rusty and dusty old razor won’t do!”
He announced to his trusty companion, Ol’ Blue.
Then he marched out back to the little red shed
And eyed up the pruners and sheep shears and said,
“We might want to start with a clipper of sorts —
What think you, Ol’ Blue?” And the dog gave a snort.
“Well, nothing short of wire cutters will mow this here beard!
A snip here, a wack there, and the bush’ll be cleared!”
Snip-snip, wack-wack, and one snippity more —
Sure enough, a grey bramble rained down to the floor;
It mounded up tall ‘round the beast’s fat front paws.
The hound sneezed and Gus grinned and rubbed on his jaws,
“I feel younger already, but we’re not done yet.
I feel scratchy as sandpaper, thirty-six grit!
“Nuzzling Grace with this scruff would mean certain defeat!
Why, I’d rasp the roses right off ‘n her cheeks!
“Git outta my way, Blue, we’re burnin’ daylight!
I mean to sharpen yon razor and do the job right.
“Grace doesn’t know it yet, but we’re havin’ supper tonight!”
And two hours later, a man left the house
Who no longer smelled like the sheep and the cows.
A man in a suit with slick hair and sweet breath
And the lily white cheeks of a corpse after death.
A scent trailed the air too woozy for words,
Like Eau de Salesman or Old Men in Church —
A spicy orange-lemon smell tainted with musk,
With Boot Black™ and saddle soap kickin’ the dust.
The poor dog went bonkers ‘til the man called his name.
Old Angus was missing, but the voice was the same.
Poor Blue was still whining when Gus got in the truck.
“Hush up now, Blue, and wish me good luck!”
to be continued …
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