Bull

Bull

My sign is Taurus. That explains my head
case rage. I'm quiet, but my horns are sore.
I scratch and grunt my anger. When I shed
myself of handlers' grips, I grunt the more.
I'd rather not engage the matador,
all slick and Spanish, clad in red and black,
awaiting my advance. A pointless chore,
but I am helpless. Charge the flag! Attack!
I snort my weight across the ring. He pulls it back.

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A Spenserian stanza about my sign, man.