This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:

He ran a gnarled hand

Through silver-streaked hair.

Arthritis caused pain,

Anguish and despair.

 

This year, he’d quietly

Turned age sixty-two.

His days as a clown

Were long since through.

 

Memories flooded back,

Playing tag with his mind,

Back through the years

To a much younger time.

 

Back then, he was the best…

The most agile around.

Someone better with bulls

Just couldn’t be found.

 

Rubbing his neck idly,

He gave a soft sigh.

Back then, he could rodeo,

Drink and tell lies.

 

He could jump over a bull’s rump,

Stop him dead in his tracks,

Then turn him aside

With a quick-handed whack.

 

He’d sure made it look easy.

There was never a school

To teach rodeo clowns

How to handle mean bulls.

 

Many a hard-riding cowboy

Was thrown high to fall flat.

They owed their health to the clown,

Plus a tip of the hat.

 

Many of those cowboys,

Rising up from the ground,

Will ride once again,

All thanks to the clown.

 

He makes it look so easy

While with danger he’ll flirt,

Keeping bull riders

From both injury and hurt.

 

The next time the rodeo

Comes into your town,

Watch over the action

Of the rodeo clown.

 

Maybe you’ll see

Another one there,

Running a pain-filled hand

Through his silvery hair.

 

There’s a twinkle in his eye —

His interest honed keen.

He’s watching the clowns

And the bull riding scene.

 

He’ll be wearing

An invisible crown

Because once he was king

Of the rodeo clowns.