Bushwacker

Ross paints for us a vivid, good ol’ western blaze of glory; an unashamed revelling in masculinity and inter-species fraternity.

By R.W. Townsend · 1 min read · Published 21 August 2026 · Updated 21 August 2026

Born in California, With fire in his blood,

Many tried to ride him, but one ever could,

Passive he stood in the chute, as they tied the rope,

To be there eight ticks later, but one had a hope.

JB was a cowboy, from Carolina heat,

He’d conquered every bucking bull, rode ‘em to defeat,

But there was one who’d thrown him, beat him at his game,

JB knew his nemesis… Bushwacker his name.

At the next occasion, he picked him for his ride,

Bushwacker was waiting, a mass of horn and hide,

JB mounted lightly, at the turn of fate,

Bushwacker stood calmly, waiting on the gate,

He leapt out from the chute, kicking as he twirled,

Up he bucked, then down he sank, spinning as the world,

Sideways out he launched his legs, spine dramatic curled,

A raging bull of rarest breed, jumping as he whirled,

Then the buzzer rang its sound,

And not a second later, JB hit the ground.

Now boy and cow are tired,

And settled on a farm,

JB and Bushwacker,

Standing horn in arm.

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