Freckles Brown drew Tornado, rodeo’s wildest bull.
He’d thrown three hundred men before the count was full.

Freckles Brown squared his shoulders, drew a long deep breath,
Mounted Tornado in the chute. This ride could mean his death.

Freckles knew how this bull bucked; he’d seen him work before.
He knew that Tornado was mean plumb down to the core.

Freckles mounted Tornado, and that bull kicked the chute.
He snorted, pawed the ground at the touch of Freckle’s boot.

The chute gate opened wide; the bull proved his name.
He twisted and turned around; he knew how to play this game.

Freckles told Tornado, “You’ve thrown three hundred men,
But I won’t be three hundred one; I won’t let you win.”

Tornado’s back legs flew up high, his head bowed to the ground,
But ol’ Tornado couldn’t throw tough Freckles Brown.

The riggin’ cut Freckles’ hand. He put that pain behind.
Just stayin’ atop of ol’ Tornado occupied Freckles’ mind.

The judge’s buzzer sounded when the count was full.
Freckles Brown was ready to get off that wild, buckin’ bull.

He hit the ground a-runnin’ out of Tornado’s way.
He did his job; he rode that bull; and really earned his pay.

© Ruth Sellers

Ruth Sellers is a retired teacher, freelance writer and researcher. This poem won first place in the local contest of Abilene Writers Guild. Ruth has been interested in rodeos for a long time since there are a lot of them in her area, both ranch and commercially sponsored contests. Bull riding has always intrigued her.

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