Many transplanted writers of seriousness
scorn it as passť, this reverence for Stetson,
boot and cowhand, vying for room in the canon
with the garrulous gibberish of hicks.
Never mind the rangy grandeur of Dobie’s prose,
so painstakingly artful in execution
he modulated its rhythm on horseback,
jarring the canon with the neighs of wild mustangs.
Blind to the local snow, stone fences and woods
so central to their venerable Frost,
they haunt the rarefied air of the salon
in whose dark elegance their polished canines
sparkle like little stars. They meet there
to carry on their diatribe, clinking their fine
crystal wineglasses, mustering up their manners
for the nonpareil, prime red beef of Texas.