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Poem

You see the young man settle in the gate,
helmet on his head, armor on his chest,
the big, gray bull rustles, showing his hate,
they call him Lightning, they say he’s the best.
Rider grabs a hold, the cowboys draw near,
audience knows that it will get a show,
a mix of excitement, flavored by fear,
gate flips open when he cries, “Let it go!”
Bull fighters and clown stand near as they fly,
beast wrapped in muscles bucking wildly,
rider last three seconds, then he meets sky,
the clown in the barrel moves rapidly,
ducks in, then goes rolling from the bull’s charge,
rider climbs the fence, to escape more harm.

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