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Robert W Service - Matador
Work rating: Medium

	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;
	"It’s such a devil`s game!” . . .
	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.
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