Billy the Bull

Billy was a shy young bull and not the least conspicuous
His constrained life of idleness was really quite ridiculous
His day was one long round of munching cud and looking stupid
Surrounded by his harem who awaited hints from cupid
Elsie, Madge and Edna not forgetting little Maisy
Ada, Maud and Agatha and of course his cherished Daisy
These crispy little cows just hung around in expectation
For the moment Billy chose one for a brief appropriation
But bulls are most adept and this is sadly disregarded
They far outwit the horse that is by contrast quite retarded
Our Billy was no different and preferred to keep aloof
Protecting his terrain – to keep a place to beat his hoof
One has to say in retrospect there wasn’t any hurry
There was no compelling sortie and no monumental worry
His only obligation was to reach the age of four
When his owner would acquaint him with a famous matador
Now Billy was naïve and failed to query or suspect
He’d heard the worthy gentleman commanded great respect
He thought he’d meet him man to bull – enjoy a tête à tête
Both courageous creatures, most good-looking and adept
And so he fantasised throughout each daily hot siesta
Of his big initiation and his very own fiesta
He lived near Salamanca on the ranch of Juan Aquinas
And enjoyed a special diet like the prima ballerinas
He seldom stopped to think why he was given such priority
He presumably ascribed it to his male superiority
He had a healthy appetite and in the course of time
He accrued some bold dimensions and his posture was sublime
His daily fitness program was a charge around the field
To fortify his muscles using all that he could wield
‘Mens sana in corpore sano’ didn’t mean a thing to him
But his soul was flying high and his condition very trim
One day his peace was ruined by a headlong confrontation
With some trendy slimline yuppies making brief evaluation
The boss was quite conceited, his character most arrogant
He treated our poor Billy like a fool or its equivalent
Billy hadn’t grasped that he was just a lump of meat
To this scrawny looking idiot with his ballet dancer’s feet
He slapped Bill on the back as if he’d just become his master
And promptly left with entourage – Bill clearly smelt disaster
Poor Billy was bewildered and he couldn’t understand
The nature of this business seemed extremely underhand
About a fortnight later there was action in the pen
And Billy was surrounded by a lot of brawny men
They manoeuvred him between them to a corner of the field
And intimidated Billy till he simply had to yield
With tricks and brute coercion they secured him to the ground
His harem kept their distance – did not dare to make a sound
Then they brought him to the lorry and enticed him up the ramp
Till his total degradation made him feel a worthless tramp
His solitary journey was a turbulent affair
His strained nerves had transposed him to a state of “laissez faire”
Upon his late arrival at his new-found destination
He experienced a nasty and despicable sensation
He could swear it bore the odour of some distant blood relation
Presumably a mishap on a far-away plantation
He was ushered to a confine of about six feet by twenty
And watched over by a keeper who observed him like a sentry
He’d never been away from home and missed his old surroundings
He sensed his life of leisure could give way to ugly houndings
He didn’t trust his warden; he looked evil and obnoxious
As he swaggered to the bulls cooped up in other little boxes
Poor Billy was the victim of his rich imagination
As he started to reflect upon his brusque incarceration
He mourned the loss of loved ones he’d abandoned just that day
And swore to treat them nicely next time he met them in the hay
But instinct was forbidding and deep in his heart he knew
There prevailed a real danger that could land in him in the stew
His five-star haute cuisine gave way to no food whatsoever
He couldn’t grasp how he should keep his skin and bones together
His luxury abode replaced by bare boards on the floor
Was a callous kind of contrast for a bull who’s used to more
‘Twas the least of his concerns as he assessed the day ahead
And his gut reaction told him that he mustn’t lose his head
Ad infinitum Billy counted sheep throughout the night
While his colleagues were oblivious to the dangers of their fight
By morning Bill was groggy, couldn’t count another lamb
His associates were full of life and couldn’t wait to scram
Their delusion was complete and they were thrilled to be the heroes
In the up and coming cabaret for bulls and human weirdos
In end effect their sentence was akin to on death row
With every degradation human beings could bestow
They never could survive the fight whatever war they waged
The end result predestined by procedures that were staged
They’d have to learn the hard way by which time they’d be deceased
But ignorance is bliss when adrenaline’s increased
Now Billy wasn’t clever but his insight was mature
As his fright intensified, so did he generate manure
It was hot in this old shack and Billy found it hard to breathe
His knees were weak and wobbly and his fevered brow did seethe
No matter how he tried his body wouldn’t rise and shine
His inmates simply chuckled “Poor old Billy’s past his prime”
He began to feel quite numb and was aware his thoughts were garbled
His room-mates doubtless thought that he’d begun to lose his marbles
The “wardens” came along and tried to decorate these creatures
As if they needed jewellery to magnify their features
The other five, now tarted up were looking rather silly
But when they turned to Number Six, it was recumbent Billy
They’d never seen a bull who simply laid down and felt drowsy
They’d no idea that Billy now was feeling really lousy
They dealt with him professionally and made him look “attractive”
But little did they guess that Bill was totally inactive
Six bulls spruced up and catalogued and ready for the kill
In a sport that’s indefensible for beings like our Bill
They could hear the music playing in the sordid opening ritual
The band was badly out of tune – it was of course habitual
The crowds were quite substantial and they’d paid a handsome price
To enjoy a public slaughter and appease their bloody vice
They collected Number One and took him proudly to the ring
Where the first few skilful pasos gave the bull a welcome fling
The crowd was cheering loudly at the bull’s keen sense of duty
Impatient for the horror and insensitive to beauty
The matador made ‘pasos’ feeling all the time much bolder
The picador on horseback gored him three times in the shoulder
Banderilleros finished up by driving barbed sticks in his neck
To make him hang his head low and facilitate quick death
The blood was pouring freely and he looked a sorry sight
And videos recorded this unfair and gory fight
The bulls back in the cell were much perplexed at what they heard
That Number One was having fun seemed utterly absurd
They sensed the smell of blood and felt the spasms of his pain
They didn’t see the spectacle but knew of his disdain
The crowds were shrieking loudly now, the atmosphere electric
The five remaining bulls alarmed at what would be expected
The finishing crescendo told them it was done and past
They sensed their friend had gone away to chew on heaven’s grass
They heard the hooves of horses dragging something from the ring
And they feared that Number One was going to be that certain “thing”
They couldn’t see the object but the smell was so well known
It reminded them of slaughterhouses near to their old home
In fairly quick succession Billy’s pals were led away
To do what they were born to do, that lovely summer’s day
With unrelenting clarity he knew his time had come
To go and entertain the crowds – ensure them lots of fun
He tried to lift himself and heave his body off the ground
But for the life of him there was no power to be found
Six hundred kilos worth of meat is no mean weight to lift
He couldn’t even raise a smile; his bulk was hard to shift
Eight beefy men stood on alert to bring him to the crowd
Who waited in the scorching sun, resentment growing loud
The men had never witnessed such a bull with this affliction
They lacked the time to scrutinise the source of his constriction
They took the big bull by the horns; his torso was like lead
And skilfully teased him to his feet and gently raised his head
They’d never met a placid bull that had to be escorted
But then a bull like Billy hadn’t ever been reported
They steered him gently to the ring and almost said goodbye
They felt an inward sorrow that his time was almost nigh
The crowd stood up and howled with mirth to hear him feebly mooing
The matador looked horrified; this bull was his undoing
To think he had selected him just two short weeks before
As his brutal magnitude had qualified him all the more
As Billy looked around he found it sinister and chilling
Surrounded by spectators who were waiting for his killing
Heckled by a public which was hostile and abusive
He couldn’t understand how he could make himself conducive
The matador was trying to entice him to partake
But Billy wasn’t up to it; he felt an utter fake
When the matador approached him, Billy strolled the other way
To circumvent a conflict and prolong his earthly stay
Now bulls will charge at anything regardless of the colour
But Billy was so volatile, his mind was growing duller
They couldn’t call the picador if Billy wouldn’t fight
But the throng was getting angry and the tempers could ignite
The banderilleros entered and intended to attack
But they took one look at Billy and decided to retract
Even they were not the types to hit a bull when he was down
But in the meantime Billy lay there like a jobless circus clown
There was nothing he could do; it was as if they’d pulled the plug
Inertia had him grounded like a piece of Indian rug
The matador, outraged at this outlandish situation
Removed himself forthwith to save still further degradation
His entourage did follow suit, now totally befuddled
Pretending to assume degrees of grace in all this muddle
The President stood up not quite believing what he saw
And the band began to play a Paso Doble with furore
The multitude were throwing half their household in the ring
So great was the confusion that you couldn’t hear a thing
Just Billy laid there panting seeming more dead than alive
In point of fact he wondered how he’d managed to survive
In a mystical revival he commanded all his vigour
And with every ounce of muscle raised himself with startling rigour
He was groggy and for certain wouldn’t want to run a mile
But he slowly found his feet and tottered round a little while
He stumbled and tripped over falling badly to the ground
Maintaining his sick image to avoid another round
And so it was that Billy had outwitted his great rival
In an effort that would guarantee his interim survival
They raised him with a crane and took him to the next enclosure
Undecided how to deal with this embarrassing exposure
The matador was mortified – his honour was destroyed
He still got paid quite handsomely although he was annoyed
They took our Billy home to his old haunt amongst his cows
Where he spent his days deciding on which one he would arouse
Amongst his precious harem as their source of pure enjoyment
His bullfighting career had been the worst of all employment
Then the real contest isn’t between matador and bull
It’s the matador’s own struggle in his mind, and that is all.
The only real purpose for this unassuming beast
Is to act as a utensil like a table at a feast
It seems man has the right to kill God’s creatures with impunity
To glorify his ego and then enjoy complete immunity
It shows a mocking disrespect for the precious gift of life
And confirms man’s spineless failure and his big internal strife
The perfect world to aim towards is full of happy creatures
Where man could be upgraded to reveal his best of features

Photo: pexels – jahoo-clouseau