BRAVO?!

This song comes from a story I wrote about bullfighting - originally in the Mazatlan Messenger then expanded and included in my book, Tales from Mananaville. https://www.amazon.com/Tales-Ma%C3%B1anaville-Anecdotes-Observations-Stories/dp/1661274552/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=tales+from+mananaville&qid=1582503140&sr=8-1 BRAVO!? Anti-bullfight protest ballad [Spoken Intro] They called it tradition. They called it art. They called it courage. But from the cheap seats in the Mazatlán sun… all I saw was fear dressed up in a suit of lights. I sat in the sun with the dust in my eyes, A ticket in hand and a heart full of lies, Thought maybe the stories had something to say, Hemingway’s ghost in a masculine play. But the gate swung open, the shouting began, And the bull stepped out onto the battlefield sand, Strong as the thunder, black as the night, Born to be broken for a crowds delight. Hemingway said “Don’t look too close, It’s culture and tradition my friend.” But culture ain’t holy when mercy must end. Bravo? For what did you cheer? For blood on the sand and a costume of fear? Bravo? For the blade and the lie? For teaching a crowd how to watch something die? You call it tradition, I call it a cultural scar— A man with help for his courage standing safely afar. The picador leaned with the weight of his frame, Steel in the sunlight, crowd chanting his name, Down through the muscle, down into pain, And the bull staggered forward again and again. Ribbons were dancing from barbs in his back, Bright little colors on suffering’s track, Children were clapping, old men smiled wide, I felt something human crying inside. They said, “He’s a killer, That beast in the ring.” But murder with music is still not a beautiful thing. Bravo? For what did you cheer? For blood on the sand and a costume of fear? Bravo? For the cape and the crowd? For calling it noble when pain cries aloud? You call it tradition, I call it a chain— A prayer to the past made of ego and pain. Matador means killer. Dress it in gold, call it ballet, call it tragedy, call it art. But the bull never bought a ticket. The bull never chose the part. Some gringo said, “When in Rome, let it be,” From his cool little house by the old blue sea, Talkin’ tradition with ice in his glass, While the world and its conscience were trying to pass. Tradition once cheered in the Coliseum, Tradition kept slaves and called freedom treason, Tradition can rot when the truth finds light, And mercy strides in like a light in the night. No Progress to come from repeating the same, And cruelty dressed fancy still answers to shame. Bravo? For what did you cheer? For blood on the sand and a costume of fear? Bravo? For the man and the sword? For pretending that pain is pleasing the Lord? You call it tradition, I call it a fall— When the heart stops hearing the cry of it all. Gandhi said nations are measured this way, By how they treat creatures who cannot say, “Please let me live, please let me be, Please let the sun and the pasture know me.” The Bible says mercy belongs to the just, The wise say all life is one breath of dust, And if we hurt life just to prove we are strong, Then maybe the beast in the ring is where we belong. Bravo? No, I won’t cheer. Not for the blade, not for the fear. Bravo? No, not for me. I choose the bull, no blood, and the sea. You call it tradition, I call it goodbye— To the old hungry gods that taught men how to lie. Bravo? Let the word fall flat. There’s no honor in killing what never fought back. I left the ring early and wished I was at the beach. The crowd went on cheering. The dust settled. The matador strutted. Donkeys dragged the bull away. And something in me never went back.