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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
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Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (3568 reads)
Unless there is a lot of goring


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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