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!
Copyright © Paul Holmes | Year Posted 2010
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