Tordesillas toro de la vega

To be a spearman
You have to be psychotic
In medieval towns
So many are
There are protestors
In madrid
And elsewhere in the country
But expectations now to lift the lid
On roguery and streaks of piss
Are sadly
Given the stage and remarkably they are
Unfriendly and disaffected
And probably rejected
But up front in a crowd
They are the star

A prize bull gets the chance
To die in agony
A fearless soul with power and strength
Who might
Given an equal chance in life
Give a good account
But how this ritual operates
He is never in the light

Craven hearted idiots
Are out there
Each With a small medieval mind
Long since dried up
The Spearmen,s great long lances
From their horses
Stabbing at the Bulls behind

They wear the animal down
Of course from blood loss
The torture and its torture
All the way
The shouting of the crowd
Its all a frenzy
And the bull alas it really has to pay

Gallant bold and dogged
All unflinching
The feast days show the world
At large how bad
These so called youths of Spain are
Bounders everyone
Their livers shot away with sangria
When the day is done

Whoever kills the animal
Thrusts the great iron lance
Into the spine of the weary bull
Who really has no chance
It then falls to this sadist
This ugly monstrosity
To cut off the animals testicles
And parade them instantly

Bloody sinewy testicles hanging on his lance
And this champion of screwballs
Is applauded for his dance
Blood soaked and objectionable
Is seen by all eyes there
This is SPAIN raising its flag of CULTURE
And despair