A trumpet fanfare,
the bull full of life runs in,
a ring of arches held by columns,
tiers of seats rise high,

in the shaded part,
the coolest place
away from the midday sun
they´re cheering in fine suits,

the bulls bloodied back
is burned black and baked dry
in an unforgiving scorching sun
and blood stained sand
saps his life,

sheer exhaustion, tormented
worn and wounded,

the matador poses
with sword held high
in a glittering suit and
sparkling pink socks,

it´s the same with the fox,
the murdering *******
feel it´s acceptable
if they dress up.... for the ****.