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Poem by Robert William Service
Unless there is a lot of goring I always find a bull-fight boring. Lopez, the famous Mexican, Was starring in Madrid, And mobs acclaimed that mighty man For daring deeds he did. His tunic braid was primrose gold, His pants were lily white, As round the sanded ring he strolled, A dazzle to the sight. But haply in a thousand fights A matador may slip; With women, wine and hectic nights His hand may lose its grip. So as he dealt the lethal blow The bull lunged out once more, And Lopez, pride of Mexico Was mingled with its gore. A pretty maid from U.S.A. Was sitting by my side, And as they bore the man away Right bitterly she cried. She sobbed to see a Mexican Who round the ringside struts, Be carried forth, a dying man, A horn-thrust in his guts. 'Twas sad to view―then suddenly She laughed and laughed aloud; Aye, she betrayed a wanton glee Before that grieving crowd. "I'm glad to see him killed!" she cried; "ItТs such a devil's game!Ф . . . Somehow I'd like to think she lied, But I think just the same. With skill and art their parts they play, Six bulls are duly slain; With dreary logic they display The cruelty of Spain. But still I go to bull-fights for I hope I may be thrilled To see another Matador BE KILLED.
Robert William Service
Robert William Service's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail email@example.com