A Challenge by Ambrose Bierce — Past Poetry archive

A bull imprisoned in a stall Broke boldly the confining wall, And found himself, when out of bounds, Within a washerwoman’s grounds. Where, hanging on a line to dry, A crimson skirt inflamed his eye. With bellowings that woke the dead, He bent his formidable head, With pointed horns and knurly forehead; Then, planting firm his shoulders horrid, Began, with rage made half insane, To paw the arid earth amain, Flinging the dust upon his flanks In desolating clouds and banks, The while his eyes’ uneasy white Betrayed his doubt what foe the bright Red tent concealed, perchance, from sight. The garment, which, all undismayed, Had never paled a single shade, Now found a tongue⁠—a dangling sock, Left carelessly inside the smock: “I must insist, my gracious liege, That you’ll be pleased to raise the siege: My colors I will never strike. I know your sex⁠—you’re all alike. Some small experience I’ve had⁠— You’re not the first I’ve driven mad.”