The Black Bull bursts into the china shop,
Hoof and horn swinging and stomping at every little thing.
Things come crashing
dolls, and tea cups and pretty porcelain cakes.
This is no place for a bull.
The soft, pretty pinks, and the cold, bone whites
succumb to the raging and the thrashing.
There is so much blood
“Where are your eyes?
Oh God! Where are your eyes!”