The Matador

The matador
Was dead for sure
The walking dead
Who is no more
The powerless one
Is all but done
Impotent kaput obsolete
A neutralized and sad dead-beat

Inept inadequate
Feeble mind
He has no shadow
He can’t unwind
His spring is sprung
His soul no more
His throttling hands
Most do abhor

Stalwart stout
Rugged robust
A potency
The spunk and thrust
But a gentle soul
In so many ways
Who in the sunshine
Loves to graze
Loves the greenery
All the juice
A heart of oak
I do deduce
His ruination
One of trust
The ruinous subversive thrust

From the Matador
The raging raw
Clad in soft
Silks and satins
He aloft
With spit and spot
Against a tortured Bull
He is not
Any match
He never was
And really
That was just because
His savage soul
His thrashing role
His fuming boiling
Troublous goal

Was based around
His interpretation
A masquerade
Of mimicry
A thin veneer
Of sophistory
So much deceit
His whole gender
Was counterfeit
A creepy sod
He was infact his only

The carpet bagger
The Judas who
Showed the serpent
What to do
Wiped the tears
Of the bull away
With a smirk on his lips
Of pure decay
Shammer malingerer
The great bull knew
He smelled the scum
Of the murdering crew
These histrionics
He took on board
The flummery
And The vile discord

The flimsy handerkerchief
And all
A caricature
Of those who call
As death approaches
And the final breath
Closes ones eyes
And admits to death
I was that Bull
Unvoiced maybe
Hathor was here
To welcome me
Iambic thoughts
Were brought to play
As his insidious stench
Just melted away

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