Big gore-spillers have their way with you…
slash and gash you most any place.
When you flee, they will be a-runnin’ too.
Cleft are cheeks and much of face.

You thought the race would lead to success,
but now your chest compartment’s a mess.
Such a fall—so sorry that you’re black and blue…
lesser of what gore-spillers can do.

You were creepin’—behind you, a mess of toros.
You should have gone to a park and rode burros.
But you got creamed and were laid real low…
gore-spillers scored your chest and arms too.

You swilled, got soused—la corrida you ran,
then you got drilled by gore-spillers. Ouch!
Luckily there was recourse
to hospital for your sores and scores.

You’re horn-scraped, which makes you depressed—
we hope Pamplona urges are suppressed
and you’ll no longer run—it’s insane.
Now, you’re wracked and feeling lots of pain.

Big gore-spillers had their way with you…
slashed and gashed you during the race.
This ain’t free—you got hospital bills due—
rent’s expensive for this place.