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Running The Bulls
 
An old man on his way, pain in his hip, but one step follows the other.
Los Torros some children shout, Los Torros to the slaughter.
Hands for horns, they run rings around him, finish their game with a stick.
Then bow to the seats reserved for heroes of past Corrida.
 
A bell tolls and the people run for cover, crowd behind the barricades.
Yip, Yip, run straight Los Torros, Los Torros do not fear slaughter.
Blow and bellow, a boiled eye’s centre, the stink, then a clatter and trip.
Stunned, a big-calf stands, turns four ways, and trots on to the arena.
 
On the sand a young man practices his moves like a dancer.
Los Torros the chant grows from the street Los Torros, Los Torros.

 

 

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