A poem I dedicate to my uncle.
He gets on for his last ride
Inside, the fear he hides
He’s out to win the loot
As he gets in the bucking shoot
He puts his hands in the rope
The people in the crowd full of hope
He says “Okay, boys,” and off he goes
Tense from head to toe
It feels like forever, but the bell goes
He jumps off and rolls
He stands up, eight-second ride
As the fear starts to slide
He puts a smile on his face
That’s the beauty of a bull riders grace
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