Olė

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¡Olé!
They say that this is where it ends.
That no-one's made it out your ring yet.
The roses fly as you wave to the stands.
Predictably I charge you, seeing red.
Your dodgy dance in rhythm and on key
With arrogance and flair in every note.
Each time I'm tangled in your cape again
When I was clearly going for the throat.
The avid crowds rave and roar.
Insatiably they beg for more.
Blood, guts and glory, thrills, and gore.
That's what I'm here for. Bred for war.
A pungent, poignant metaphor
For instincts men just can't ignore.
Incessant cravings at their core
All men are beasts and always were.
As daggers dive into my back,
You calmly prance around and gloat.
I scrape the damask of your sleeve again
When I was going for the throat.
Your pompous pacing back and forth.
We both bleed red for what it's worth.
You think your guile can match my girth.
The Taurus eye glares from the north.
Our fates forever intertwined.
Keep standing still my dear Orion.
Once in a while the stars align.
You can't win every god damn time.
The pan!c! They send in the clowns.
You coil in horror on the ground.
The crowds gasping in dismay.
The doctors carry you away.
You tell your hordes there ain't no meat.
I'll walk away on my own feet.
So sorry to have ruined your pretty coat.
But I was going for the throat.

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