Accounts of the Arena
The black bull bleeds
in the neck
The ladies are gone.
I throw a rose
upon the black loins
Tomorrow
another bull fight
and the gall irk
of cafard and skeptic
Keep the whisky from me.
in the neck
The ladies are gone.
I throw a rose
upon the black loins
Tomorrow
another bull fight
and the gall irk
of cafard and skeptic
Keep the whisky from me.
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