Rocket and the Flea
    by Kym Eitel

 

The bugger launched each cowboy like a rocket into space,
then strolled back in the chute again to watch the next scared face.
Each fella took a pummelling that ended in a wreck.
The ambo’s stacked the bodies as each fella hit the deck.

He half-killed fourteen cowboys and he gave them all new scars
as mashed and mangled bodies hurtled out near bloody Mars.
But on and on, the horse waged war to keep his wild repute.
He never seemed to show fatigue, that devastating brute.

Old Gus earned seven thousand more and hadn’t moved a toe.
He upped the jackpot - twenty thou’ and yelled out “Have a go!”
“I’ll give you ringers twenty grand to ride old Rocket here!
He’s just a bloomin’ pony boys, so don’t you stress or fear.

Just grip that rope real tight my friends until the whistle cries -
if ya’ butt stays in the saddle then you’ve earned the jackpot prize!”
That saddle bronc had beat them all, including Bronco Lee.
Then in the crowded stands stood up a bloke they called The Flea.

The Flea was only five foot two, but man, that kid could ride!
No bronc had ever thrown him once his legs were ‘round its hide.
The ladies crooned “You’re just so cute!” and hugged his head of curls.
His face got smooshed in bosoms of the barrel racing girls.

He wriggled on his leather gloves, toward the gate he strode.
He figured this was “one more bronc, just waitin’ to be rode”.
Old Rocket waited smugly for the next poor hanger-on.
He knew in three split seconds, victim fifteen would be gone.

He glared at Flea between the rails, the devil in his eye.
The Flea though, just ignored him as he wandered slowly by.
He climbed upon the horse’s back and calmly got his grip.
The ringers flung the gate back wide and let old Rocket rip.

The Flea just sat there easy with his short legs gripping tight.
The Rocket propped and corkscrewed and he bucked with all his might.
He humped so hard a sudden noise emitted from his crotch!
Old Rocket’s eyeballs bulged and then he turned it up a notch.

To double time the Rocket lurched and spiralled in a rage.
He realised this rider had a skill of different gauge.
He cranked the effort up - full speed - he moved up several gears.
He threw some moves he hadn’t used in many, many years.

He should have thrown the man by now but still he bucked and wheezed.
The more he twisted inside out the tighter Flea’s legs squeezed.
A cyclone with a temper, Rocket swivelled and he twirled,
but Flea stayed put and stuck like glue as Rocket spun and whirled.

They heard a funny ripping sound - the girth strap ripped in two,
and into outer orbit, both the man and saddle flew.
The whistle blew and Rocket bucked. The man was off his back,
but never had the horse before clean bucked off all his tack!

Still straddled in the saddle like a Frisbee flying high,
the Flea was spinning airborne through the dust-filled twilight sky.
His curls were blowing in the wind, his boots flung out the side.
He clung on tight with all his might for this was quite a ride.

He flew above the stadium and got a bird’s eye view -
that mongrel Rocket bucked alone and then the beast shot through.
Flea landed with a bounce or two – a cloud of dust quite gross.
His butt was in the saddle, but the ground was mighty close!

Flea sat there stunned and silent with the bridle in the dirt.
He wriggled toes and cracked his neck to see if he was hurt.
His butt was bruised quite black and blue, he’d landed with such force.
He looked around and then he asked, “What happened to me horse?”

It took a few more seconds for his addled, shaken brain
to realise the girth had broke from Rocket’s grunt and strain.
The people cheered, “You’ve won the prize! You’ve just won twenty grand!”
Two thousand feet were stamping then and shook the wooden stand.

But ugly Gus raised up his arm to hush the screaming sound.
“He didn’t win the jackpot! Rocket threw him to the ground.”
The crowd stood up in protest then, their voices raised as one.
“Flea won that money, fair and square!” They wanted justice done.

“Just hold that rope real tight, you said, until the whistle cries,
whoever stuck the saddle - you would give the jackpot prize!”
They echoed back the words he’d spoke with smirking, curled-up lip.
“The saddle never left his butt, he had such mighty grip!

He might have left the horse’s back before the whistle blew,
but Flea stayed in that saddle as it snapped and then it flew.”
Old Gus looked scared - he realised the twist in his own rule.
A thousand people heard the deal - he felt a bloomin’ fool.

His chronic smiling vanished as he watched the crowd revolt.
He gripped that roll of money and he tried to make a bolt.
Of course, he didn’t get real far, the cowboys roped him quick.
He handed Flea the twenty grand - his grin looked mighty sick.

The people clapped for Flea’s wild ride and jackpot money pile.
The cowboys cheered for Flea had wiped the smirk from Gus’ dial.
The cowgirls rushed to kiss the Flea and hugged his beaming face.
He almost suffocated in their bosomly embrace.

He danced for hours, face to boob and thanked his pygmy height.
With twenty thou’ and twenty girls he partied on all night.
Old Gus has quit the rodeos and Rocket too, of course.
He rues the day he paid a prize, to NOT stay on the horse!

Kym Eitel ©