Whose fighting for life the matador
\nBut as for me I am no more
\nStabbed and harried broken until
\nThe blood. Ran out of me just at will
\nThose pink trousers and pink brocade
\nThe vile contempt blade after blade
\nThrust and stuck till one has to scream
\nPAblo Belando this is no dream
\nThis is murder and a baying mob
\nIn Murcia but no mercy rob
\nMe of all strength me of my power
\nLeave me to fall on the ring and to cower
\nMy organs alight with each thrust of steel
\nNobody caring though how I feel
\nWhat is left but to charge him down
\nUse my horns upon this clown
\nGore him once and gore him twice
\nHis lungs his stomach his legs
\nSuffice
\nTo say his spirit is fast away
\nSeeing him broken and there to stay
\nBleeding receding into the night
\nAs I lay down so as to invite
\nDeath with his sickle to take me out
\nI am the Bull I know what life’s about
\nAs for that murderer I feel fraught
\nFor he knew the price or well he ought
\nFor me to just let him look the prince
\nWith feminine clobber and fresh black rinse
\nIt wasn’t going to happen not anymore
\nI just had to get that Matador<\/p>\n
And now the mercy goes all his way
\nThey write an article and They say
\nOr imply the man is the victim here
\nBut I hurt too though it wasn’t clear
\nI had a life that I loved to lead
\nall the aggression there was no need
\nAnd all the Cuadrilla did cut me down
\nMade me perform with that pink clown
\nPrancing about for all he was worth
\nUntil like a doll he hit the earth<\/p>\n
I was the victim that nobody saw
\nNobody cared for in a war
\nNot of my making I wanted to be
\nOut in the paddock running free
\nNot harming anyone even a flower
\nLiving a life hour after hour
\nTasting the buttercups feeling the sun
\nOn my back the attack what had I done
\nTo deserve this battle and all this pain<\/p>\n
The only excuse to be born in SPAIN<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Whose fighting for life the matador But as for me I am no more Stabbed and harried broken until The blood. Ran out of me just at will Those pink trousers and pink brocade The vile contempt blade after blade … Continue reading