Sunday Stanza: A Buckskin Rodeo and a Fence with No Mercy

I pulled in that morning to a small country farm,
With a few wiry horses, each brimming with charm.
That fence was strung with a hot, buzzing line—
The owner assured me, “It’s off, you’ll be fine.”

A buckskin was waiting, a spirited brute,
Fifteen hands tall and impressively stout.
He danced, and he snorted, no halter, no tack—
Just a sarcoid to check on the side of his snout.

But the gelding, it seemed, had no plans to comply—
He wheeled, and he bolted each time I got nigh.
So I reached under my truck seat, cool as you please,
And fetched my old orange lariat, handy with ease.

With a soft, practiced toss, the loop found his poll,
But that buckskin exploded—he lost all control!
He jumped to the left, I flew to the right—
And landed, backside, in an electrified plight.

Zap! Crackle! Sizzle! My seat met the wire—
A rhythmic assault like a live cattle fryer.
I hollered, “You liar! It’s hot as can be!
You said it was OFF—it just sizzled my seat!”

The owner looked sheepish, his hat in his grip.
“Well shoot, Doc, I guess I forgot that last switch.
Sure sorry ‘bout that,” he said with a grin,
While I rubbed my poor backside, still buzzing within.

So, here’s my take, when you’re out checking steeds:
Confirm the fence twice before tending their needs.
‘Cause a buckskin’s got fire, but the wire’s got bite—
And a zapped veterinarian’s rump ain’t a pretty sight.

DocBott