When You’re Throwed.
Anonymous. Songs of Horses, 1920.
Since he’s big enough to ride,
And has had to sling his saddle
On most any colored hide,—
Though it’s nothin’ they take pride in,
Still most fellers I have knowed,
If they ever done much ridin’,
Has at different times got throwed.
All the boys start out together
For the round-up some fine day
When you’re due to throw your leather
On a little wall-eyed bay,
An’ he swells to beat the nation
When you’re cinchin’ up the slack,
An’ he keeps an elevation
In your saddle at the back.
He stands still with feet a-sprawlin’,
An’ his eye shows lots of white,
An’ he kinks his spinal column,
An’ his hide is puckered tight,
He starts risin’ an’ a-jumpin’,
An’ he strikes when you get near.
An’ you cuss him an’ you thump him
Till you get him by the ear,—
Then your right hand grabs the saddle
An’ you ketch your stirrup, too,
An’ you try to light a-straddle
Like a woolly buckaroo;
But he drops his head an’ switches,
Then he makes a backward jump,
Out of reach your stirrup twitches
But your right spur grabs his hump.
An’ “Stay with him!” shouts some feller;
Though you know it’s hope forlorn,
Yet you’ll show that you ain’t yeller
An’ you choke the saddle horn.
Then you feel one rein a-droppin’
An’ you know he’s got his head;
An’ your shirt tail’s out an’ floppin’;
An’ the saddle pulls like lead.
Then the boys all yell together
Fit to make a feller sick:
“Hey, you short horn, drop the leather!
Fan his fat an’ ride him slick!”
Seems you’re up-side-down an’ flyin’,
Then your spurs begin to slip.
There’s no further use in tryin’,
For the horn flies from your grip,
An’ you feel a vague sensation
As upon the ground you roll,
Like a violent separation’
‘T wixt your body an’ your soul.
Then you roll agin a hummock
Where you lay an’ gasp for breath,
An’ there’s somethin’ grips your stomach
Like the finger-grips o’ death.
They all offers you prescriptions
For the grip an’ for the croup,
An’ they give you plain descriptions
How you looped the spiral loop;
They all swear you beat a circus
Or a hoochy-koochy dance,
Moppin’ up the cañon’s surface
With the bosom of your pants.
Then you’ll get up on your trotters,
But you have a job to stand;
For the landscape round you totters
An’ your collar’s full o’ sand.
Lots of fellers give prescriptions
How a broncho should be rode,
But there’s few that gives descriptions
Of the times when they got throwed.