“Desplante”

The Matador is anything but human
Artfulness took over heartfelt ways
Clearly a divergence and ambiguity
A dissonance that actually then plays
Into a fine energy of being
A craven lily livered angry streak
Unworthy of an ungulates attention
A conceitedness and emptiness so bleak
Showmanship amounting to indignity
All pageantry and circumstance and pomp
Silks and bling and satin and a dirk ready to lunge
Self centredness just all part of the romp

The angst the pain the trembling confusion
The undismayed and undaunted will defy
Brinkmanship and reckless by presumption
Shamed into the question really why
Desplante a trick of true humiliation
An emptiness without substance at all
A cockiness and bumptiousness a way to try and fool
The noble aristocracy
Such blood stock overall

The courage of one’s convictions
Where humility doth grow
Ready now to bow our heads
And await the final blow
In ominous profusion
Blood spattered everywhere
The vulgarity and commonness
The gutter press are there
The audience disfigured
Humanities great smear
Ravaged shameless vandals
Unworthy of a tear