From the sword of spartacus the armistice failed,
What a marvelous audience, such heartlessness; frail.
The start of all this hardship is caused by betrayal.
Weeping widows, bastard sons show that darkness prevailed,
I hailed from a place unknown to most; tasteless
Captured at 16 and fighting on an every day basis.
I won against lions to every viewers amazement
But I was lost among hero's that enjoyed the enslavement.
The years were torturous every day was a struggle,
From the whips to every drop of blood in a puddle.
I was a gladiator that was born under rubble,
that rose in the ranks till hope made me stumble.
An outbreak of prisoners in which Spartacus led us,
Peeling off sentiments like a head of lettuce.
We could move on to Venice or venture up north,
Instead we stayed hidden and rallied a force.
Of course, other slaves found relief and support,
While I remained trapped inside our own fort.
Months of small victories amounted to misery
For what good is infantry when facing artillery?
Wistfully I believed that we'd escape dire straits,
and slowly we sealed our fate with fire and gates.
Our uprising only gained the attention of Rome,
Who sent enough men to turn our bodies to loam.
Slaughtering half of our 30 thousand with ease,
then recapturing the rest to crucify in the streets.
Every man left standing was nailed to a cross,
and put on display to show the rebels had lost.
Our story cost our lives, even my name's been forgotten
Because we took the path that was less often trodden.
Freedom for a moment was worth every death,
because at least I died without any regrets.
Dying for entertainment created a hindrance
So I thought for myself,
and it made all the difference.
