No Bull Story

By Don Roundy, Shoemaker

My Uncle Horace, he bought him a bull
Out of Mesquite, Nevada, it seemed
A registered Jersey, top breeding and all
Brought it home 'bout the time it was weaned.
What he wanted to do was to improve his stock
But the thing wasn't good for that yet.
So 'twas kept at his place, fed well and let growed
Bringin' it up 'bout put him in debt.
Now my cousins were boys and after they chored
And got the 'have to do's' out of the way
In those summer months they'd rodeo
Rope and ride that bull calf all day
But as the bull grew some, the rodeo's stopped
And Uncle Horace he called 'em all sissies.
He hadn't noticed the Jersey get bigger and mean,
To be 'round him would give Satan the tizzies.
"You boys don't know cattle," he went on and on,
"You're letting' 'em have the upper hand."
So he was trucked away to a pasture nearby
Till he 'grew up to be 'fully a man'.
'Bout the time the bull was getting ready for sire,
Uncle Horace was up waterin' a crop.
The bull seen him down there in his red flannel shirt
As he neared, Horace looked up and hopped
On over the ditch. He looks riled, he thinks,
Better get over here out of the way.
But he was coming right toward him like an ol' freight train,
Horace reasoned out quick not to stay.
'Twas the first time he'd seen him as more than a calf,
And as he was runnin' he pondered it some.
Down the slope of a wash- tryin' to get out of the line
Of where this charging Jersey could come.
But the line of his charge was right straight ahead
Ups and downs not taken to thought.
At the bottom of the wash Horace took out his rag
His face and his neck for to mop.
But as he lifted his eyes- like a vision from Hell
That ol' bull was coming right down.
Didn't break his stride or stop or resist
Just kept running like it was all level ground.
Now getting' down there was a man's work for one day
Scared and exhausted as he was.
But getting' back out within no amount of time
Wouldn't work- and the why is because
As fast as he was thinking or or wanted to move,
The bull got to him quicker than that.
As he hit the wash bank it shook top soil loose
And put Horace in position of sat.
Now he knew he was had- 'Kennel Ration' for bulls,
In two seconds he re-lived his life.
While his hand went into his pocket and
Pulled out his ol' whittling knife.
Now this animal cost bucks, and he'd had hopes and all
But uncle Horace didn't think once of that.
In a cavalier way, with his pocket knife,
He touche-ed at animal fat.
In this low battlefield much blood was shed
Some human- but mostly the beast.
Had he hadn't a ring in his nose for to grip
A sad story this would be in the least
Finally weak and blind the bull backed off
And Horace crawled up the wash bank.
T'was a lesson in granted- little things grow big.
And Gods all who deserved any thanks.
Well, they killed him some more, and made lots of steaks
And didn't worry 'bout the money they'd lost.
They relished each bite, 'cause they knew it was him.
And dead bulls won't get nobody tossed.

In remembering my childhood, and talking about the demise of my poem about Petunia