Skyclad

See the brave toreador
just look at him thrive
Off the crowd as they roar.
For death brings a thrill
To the everyday lives of the
non-com observers
Who gloat and chastise
My mind can't believe we maintain
This barbarous blood thirsty game.
In their picturesque dwellings the aristo-classes
Spill blood that's not claret from cut-crystal glasses.
Never once pausing to contemplate why
For vanity's victories innocents die.
No better than bloodhounds
Hot on the scent
They butcher their prey
When its' energy's spent
My mind can't believe we maintain
This barbarous blood thirsty game.