When the Chips Are Down  

Gather ‘round friends, I’ve got a story to tell

‘bout that Florida cowpoke Morgan Bonaparte Mizell.

His father was a fan of Napolean’s reign.

That’s why he gave Bonaparte such a highfalutin’ name.

But folks just called him Bone for short.

‘Cause he was not the sort

 to worry ‘bout such things.

 

This lanky cowman rode in the 1880s

 down in Florida scrub land that was hot as Hades.

He spoke with a lisp and a slight wheeze.

He used a bullwhip with the greatest of ease.

 

Eighteen feet long, it would snap and crack.

 Could flick a fly off a cow’s back.

Why that bovine critter wouldn’t even flinch,

 even though that whip came within an inch or so,

 of delivering a mighty painful blow.

 

Bone rode a scrawny horse called the Marsh Tacky.

He liked his whiskey, his pipe and chewing tobakee.

When Bone weren’t riding that Marsh pony,

he played poker for drinkin’ money.

 

One night, in a game with some wealthy Florida ranchers,

ol’ Bone weren’t taking no chances.

He calmly sat there when the sheriff busted in,

shouting “Gambling is more than a sin! 

Why, it’s the law that it’s ag’in’!”

 

Bone just scratched his head and rubbed his jaw.

“Hey sheriff, we ain’t breaking no law!

“There’s no money on the table. Just chips, red, white, and blue.”

“Chips is same as money,” said the sheriff.

 “And I’m arrestin’ all of you.”

 

In court the very next day,

 these poker players had $85 fines to pay.

When it came Bone’s turn, he just grinned

 as red, white, and blue chips he turned in.

 

“Hey, chips ain’t money,” the sheriff swore with all his might.

To which Bone replied, “They was last night.”

The judge just laughed while the sheriff fumed and hissed. 

Down came the gavel. Case Dismissed.