Hold On

All you have to do is hold on for eight lousy seconds.
I, on the other hand, have to wear this crazy-assed crap and save your butt if you don’t.
Some bulls wear themselves out and stop. Not yours.
The chute opens, and seven hundred hamburgers wrapped in bull skin and horns tries to toss you into next week.
I might catch you. And then, I might not. I might just catch the horns instead.
My mother wanted me to be a doctor. Instead, I’m a lousy rodeo clown, and we’ll both need one soon if this bull doesn’t stop.