Bad Brahma Bull by Curley Fletcher

Photo of Rodeo Bull Rider


I was snappin out broncs at the Old Flyin' U
At fourty a month a plum good buckaroo.
Well, the boss came around and he says,
"Hey, my lad, well you look pretty good ridin' horses that's bad."
You see, I in't got no more outlaws to break
But I'll buy you a ticket and give you a stake.
At ridin' them bad ones, well, you ain't slow
And you might do some good at the big rodeo.

While they're puttin' the bull in the chute
I'm strappin' my spurs to the heels of my boots.
I looks that bull over and to my suprise
Well, he's a foot and a half in between his two eyes.
On top of his shoulders he's got a big hump
I hitch's my riggin' just back of that lump.
I lands in his middle and I lets out a scream
He comes out with a beller and the rest is a dream.

Well he jumps to the left and jumps towards the right
But I ain't no green horn - I'm still sittin' tight.
The dust starts to foggin' right out of his skin
He's a wavin' them horns right under my chin.
At sunnin' his belly he couldn't be beat
He's showin' the buzzards the soles of his feet.
He's a dippin' so low that my boots filled with dirt
He's a makin' a whip of the tail of my shirt.

He's snappin' the buttons right off of my clothes
He's a buckin' and a bawlin' and a blowin' his nose.
The crowd starts to cheerin' both me and that bull
Well, he needed no help, but I had my hands full.
Then he went to fence rowin' and a weavin behind
My head went poppin' - I sorta went blind.
He starts in high divin' - I lets out a groan
We went up together, but he came back alone.

Up high I turns over and below I can see
He's a pawin' up dirt just a waitin' for me.
I can picture a grave and a big slab of wood
Sayin', "Here lies a twister who thought he was good."
I notices somethin' don't seem can be true
But the brand on his hip was a big Flyin' U.
When I landed he charged, but I got enough sense
So I ran that old bull to the hole in the fence.

I dives through that hole and I want you to know
I ain't goin' back to no big rodeo.
At a straddlin' them brahmas you can bet I'm all through
So I'm sore footin' it back to the old Flyin' U.

                                                                        


 

Curley Fletcher


           In the mid-twenties, when dude ranching became a profitable business, song publishers in New York and Chicago moved to corral as many Western songs as they could, lifting them from cowboys, pulp nags, newspapers, even scribble on bunkhouse walls, with little effort to find out whose they were. They took out copyrights on the songs, changing just enough notes and words to satisfy the copyright laws.  If they were caught by an author, chances are the author couldn't prove he was the originator of the song or verse.  The songs could be sung on the range for years before a cowboy would wake up to the need to  copyright his creative output. By that time likely as not, someone would have pirated his song and claimed it for their own.

       One of the chief culprits was a man named Powder River Jack Lee. He took Curley Fletcher's Strawberry Roan along with Gail Gardner's Sierry Peetes , put them in a songbook, and toured the country with his wife Kitty. He played a steel guitar, sang the songs and claimed that he wrote them. One day he ended up in Phoenix. By that time Curly Fletcher and Gail Gardner had cemented a friendship; and were "hot under the collar" about the theft of their songs. Here is what Gail Gardner had to say about him when asked about it 3 decades or so later: "That dude come swingin' into Phoenix thirty years ago packin' a steel guitar and a hula  skirt fer his wife, Kitty. They found a rather sorry reception for that sorta music on the radio, so he bought hisself a fancy cowboy outfit, loaded him and Kitty down with belt buckles 'n boots and began singin' every cow song he could wrap his tonsils around. Curley and me got pretty damn sore about his liftin' our songs without so much as a by-your-leave, but when we got together to see what we could do about it, we found our only recourse was to sue him. Hell, he didn't own the clothes he stood in, and of course neither of us wanted Kitty."

       It has been estimated that Curley Fletcher had over half of his songs pirated before he got wise to the need to copyright them.

     In his book, "Songs Of the Sage", Curley Fletcher tells that  he spent most of his life in the West, mainly in the Great American Desert in California. Referring to himself in the third person, he said, he had been a cowboy, mule skinner, prospector and what not, but he "refused to admit ever having herded sheep".  He goes on to say: "While most of this life is now in the background, he still feels the lure of the range and the back-country. The odor of the desert sage is still fresh in his nostrils and if he has painted a vivid picture in verse- that is his earnest desire." 


 

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