The Buster

He told us he was a buster—a twister for ten years now;
In fact, he said, every bronc he’d rode he’d gentled right down like a plow.
He could bust anything with eyes and hair—train it to pull or ride;
And if any dumb puncher dared say different, he’d prove that man had lied.

He told us he’d prove the fact to us, and give us all a show,
And if we had doubts about his prowess, when he got done we’d know.
So we saddled up that rangy bay, and the buster got set to ride;
He’d promised a show, and his chance to prove it couldn’t be denied.

We released the bay when he nodded his head, and the bronc came loose at the seams,
He went this way and that, jerking about, a puncher’s most horrible dreams.
Well, the buster didn’t stay too awful long, before he came down with a wail;
He didn’t have time to land on his feet, so instead, he chose his tail.

That buster had said he could bust any horse, but I’m here to tell you what:
That feller didn’t bust the bay—all he busted was his butt.

Kirby Jonas, September 24, 1996

Image by William R Leigh (September 23, 1866 – March 11, 1955)