Everyone knows bulls have horns,
And they don’t like the color red,
The matadors in Spain have found
Out the hard way, how messy bulls are,
Spreading human guts and testicles
On the floor of an amphitheater,
And there is a little can, that says
“Red Bull gives you wings”,
Perhaps a little mojo, that makes
You feel, almost like a soaring raptor,
And on the border of square rice terraces,
You see crows scavenging ticks
On a bull’s back, while the lone bull,
Eats the grass, with no idea that the
Crow is perched on top. This has all the hallmarks
Of a symbiosis, little meals for the crows,
And healthy skin for the grazing bull.
My wife and I are sometimes like that too.
I have little eccentricities, my ticks,
That she takes out one by one,
How I scratch my dandruff, or how
My favorite part of her body, is her clit,
And I make her glow in bed, just
By pushing my hips towards her,
And just like a bull, charging a red cape,
We try to collide almost like converging meteors,
Me, the mammal and she, the matador,
On a bull ring called the marriage bed.
Learning that anatomies get horned
And scattered all around the mattress,
While orgasms come and go,
Like a can of red bull,
Giving you wings.