How people can enjoy the spectacle of a well practised team systematically torturing a magnificent animal to death is beyond my comprehension

Though most bulls are born aggressive
And when in love become possessive
He preferred a gentle life
Passionless and free from strife
Happiness for endless hours
Was for him a field of flowers
While the others bashed and banged their horns
Crashed and splattered through the thorns
In search of victory or of love
For him the yellow tall foxglove
Or any other bloom with scent
Was all he asked to be content
The rest thought him a sorry sight
And jeered because he would not fight
But he refused to join their band
And so they called him Fedinand
For if he would not be the same
He well deserved a funny name
To prove he differed from the herd
As much as any flying bird
For if he risked not horn nor limb
They did not wish to notice him
At first poor Ferdy was distraught
Because in truth he new he ought
To fight and battle with the rest
To prove who would turn out the best
Ere with a bellowed battle hymn
Proceed to slaughter in the ring
Yet before he met his Matador
He asked for just a little more
Of life within his peaceful meadow
Filled with buttercups so yellow
That grew beside the sparkling rill
Where every eve he drank his fill
And watched the dancing gnats at play
As dusk crept down upon the day
He really had no wish to vie
And go off somewhere else to die
With bloodied back and head deep bowed
To satisfy some rabid crowd
Life he deemed must have more point
Than ending as a Sunday joint
Deep down he knew this logic right
And determined that he would not fight
No matter how they laughed at him
It was a duel he could not win

Then came the day when he was taken
From his green and peaceful haven
Herded beaten whipped and struck
Into a darkened cattle truck
And after hours of grinding haul
Was led into a blood stenched stall
Left there thirsting through the night
Ere prodded out into the light
Where he stood blinking till he saw
Before him stood the Matador
Poor Ferdy knew his time had come
There was no place where he could run
And so he did the strangest thing
He sat down gracefully in the ring
The crowd let out a maddened roar
And ridiculed the Matador
Who used to being loved adored
Pierced poor Ferdy with his sword
As he died and eyes grew dim
Suddenly it seemed to him
The huge arena was transformed
And now was beautifully adorned
With primrose yellow daffodil
He sighed contented and was still