Tempers Fugit

Gluteus Maximus That Gladiator of Rome Got into such a rage That his mouth did foam, He cursed and snarled And snarled and cursed, Yet things didn’t improve But got much worse; His fists beat the ground And he spat into the air, No one dare come close When his temper did flare. Obviously struggling To undo a knot so big Wasn’t his strong point, He couldn’t give a fig! Unable to get to grips With those darn leather laces His sandals caused such scowls And grotesque grimaces... So, aren’t you grateful That he isn’t alive today? That bad tempered warrior Your life he would slay Just with one of his black looks Or a growl at your face, You’d probably explode With only a trace Of smoke and shoes Left where you did stand, Nothing but grey ashes On the Coliseum’s red sand!