Adios Pamplona
In Pamplona at the Running of the Bulls folks will cheer,
stampeding through the Spanish city as fast as they go.
The great kick some people get running with bulls in the rear
may be a matador’s dream, but it’s one I’ll forego.
In nightmares I’m racing, feeling the pinch of their horns,
I break into night sweats because I fear being trampled
and then I awake feeling like my butt’s stung by thorns.
(It’s not an experience you’d choose to repeat once sampled.)
Few of us have mastered the skills a matador has honed;
many injuries and even deaths have been reported,
so my trip to Spain once planned has now been postponed.
Instead to a Caribbean villa I’ll be transported.
As I lie on a beach holding a pina colada,
I’m sure I’ll catch 40 winks and the dream will repeat.
And I’ll ponder how Spain invaded with their armada
when this centuries old race left some trampled on the street.
*Written February 8, 2012 for Paula’s “Trample” contest
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