They say he was the devil,
in whispers, not out loud—
the Brahma bull no one could ride,
his name was ol' Black Cloud.
Many a cowboy mounted up,
an' many a cowboy tried,
but the bull was like white lightnin',
an' a couple cowboys died.
Snortin' an' a slobberin',
red-fire burnin' in each eye,
bellerin' to each rider,
"Better kiss yer kin goodbye!"
Off his back the cowboys flew,
landin' hard upon the ground,
then scramblin', if they's able
'fore ol' Black Cloud turned around—
As if dismountin' everyone
from atop his hairy hide
weren't enough to brag about—
round an' round he'd stride;
Shakin' back 'n forth his head
as if to tell the crowd,
"I'm givin' ya fair warnin',
don't mess with ol' Black Cloud!"
No cowboy heard the buzzer,
tho' he sometimes rang their bell—
the bull they tried so hard to ride,
was shot straight outta hell.
***
I hear they pastured Black Cloud
an' put him out to breed,
hopin' that he'd pass along
his hellish devil's seed.
For there never was a Brahma,
retired with such a score,
as the bull, Black Cloud from Texas—
he tossed all ninety-four...
© 2007, Tamara Hillman
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