Bulls on the Boulevard

Here among the battered bulls
who long to live in china shops,
I reach beneath tough skin
holding Ripe among the rotten,
I see logic in confusion,
And their tender spirits peeking
from the blinds of this defense,
as their ample, complex, muted minds
Entwine in picking cotton

You may think you know this tale,
of the bulls who never show you fear,
who lost the all they've never had
to come of age, assimilate,
and fight the lack possession,
They are NOT a primal fear,
but they flaunt the scars from matadors,
Enticed by this aggression

till depression from the hell disposed
is blurted through mixed messages,
In use so bulls "respect" them for becoming fully owned,
And her hips may be the only grace
these streets have ever shown them,
so they mack her asking, "Who's your daddy?"
When they themselves,
have never known