Historical Folk Lyrics
"The Bull Rider Song"

As I was snapping out broncs on the old Flying U
At forty a month, a good buckaroo,
When the boss comes around and says, "Say, my lad,
At riding rough ponies, well, you don't look bad:

"At riding the rough strain you're not so slow,
You might do some good at a big rodeo;
You say I ain't got no more ponies to break,
But I'll buy you a ticket and give you a stake.

"Lay off of the liquor and don't you get full
And think you can ride that old big Brahma bull;
He's bad as you make 'em, and don't you forget
He's throwed a lot of riders, he ain't been rode yet."

So I packs up my war bag and starts raising dust,
I'm a-hunting that show and that wild bull to bust.
I enters their contest and pays in my fee,
Then tells 'em to look at a rider, that's me.

Well, they look me all over and said, "Yes, he's full,
Let's give him a shot at that big Brahma bull."
"I've come a long ways and I'm not here to brag,
But I bet you my outfit I'll gentle that stag."

So, while they were gettin' him into the chute
I'm a-buckling the spurs to the heels of my boots,
Then looks that brute over, and to my surprise
He's a foot and a half just between his two eyes.

He's got two high horns that look pretty bad,
He weighs a good ton and that whole ton was mad;
Right over his withers he packs a big hump
So I takes a deep seat right behind that big lump.

Well, I leaned over so to open her wide,
"I'll be back in a minute and bring you his hide.
"They opened that chute gate and I'm tellin' you
Right there at the entrance, boys, he come in two.

He hit for the east, but he lit in the west,
I'm a-sittin' up high, I'm sure doing my best;
Those horns are a-tossing right under my chin,
But I'm still sitting straight and trying to grin.

Well, the crowd gets to cheerio' both me and the bull,
But they don't do no good cause I've got my hands full;
He's dipping so low that my boots fill with dirt,
And he's poppin' the buttons right off of my shirt.

He gets the fence rowing and weaving behind,
My head gets to popping, I sorta go blind;
When he takes to hand-springing way up in the air
And leaves me a-sitting on nothing up there.

Up there I turned over, below I can see
He's pawin' the ground, he's sure waiting for me;
I pictures a grave and a slab made of wood
Reading, "Here lies a rider that thought he was good."

I hit on the ground and I've got enough sense
To outrun that bull to a hole in the fence;
I get my old saddle and I'm telling you
I high-tailed her back to that old Flying U.