The Matador

I seem to recall a bull fight,
Attended eagerly as lad.
The matador, he spoke earnestly
About the victories he’d had.
He had us in his pockets,
With words of a giant’s tongue.
He promised us our winnings.
Kissed the foreheads of our young.

In the pen the Spaniard appeared haughty,
Though seasoned with exceptional skill.
And the bull was wild and unruly
This fascist was testing his will.
There was calm in the air around Sevilla,
The crowd watched with discontent
To see the Torero’s performance
In stunting the bull’s intent.

The third of death began aptly.
The matador emerged in the ring.
By now, the bull had lost much of his breath.
But knew of revolution under his wing
His hoof beat the dirt,
The Matador had missed step,
The bull knew it the time.
At last, the crowd, the country and the family wept.


So you see, women, children and husbands alike, came to the show knowing their fuehrer would fight. They believed in his words, the path that he set. A great man knows agony when it is met. The order had changed. With the people holding the rein. Didn’t we know we would one day see, how it once was, and how it should be.