Bull Rider

I met a boy who rode the rodeo
and took me hunting on his daddy's spread.
He was so quick he made my swing look slow,
and every cock he pointed at fell dead.

Picture a half ton bull bucking a boy
who weighs one forty, risking broken bones
for eight seconds of panic-stricken joy.
Fine looking kid, his buddies called him Jones.

Summers he bummed from town to drowsy town;
he'd mount Black Lightning, Cruel Clementine,
dust himself off. He told me with a frown
"I ain't no Larry Mahan or Phil Lyne."

Figured he'd ranch, maybe, or study law.
Sported the cutest butt I ever saw.

(the "next" paddle will take you to another poem by this author)