The boxer stands with his gloves at the ready
His gait sure and steady
His eyes aware and to the fore
His mind on the bout and nothing more
But deep within, and on his face written
Are the many scars of a life hard-bitten
And while ne’er shy of a hard-fought fight
There is no longer within the feeling of delight
His face has too oft been made to pay
By an opponent better on the day
And though within beats the heart of a lion
His poor pummelled body has given up tryin’
And while a fighter to his very core
Just the smell of gloves now he does abhor
Yet, still he stands, eyes puffed and blood galore
Still ready to wage a pugilist’s war
As blow after blow upon his battered head does fall
He knows but only one way, and that is the brawl
And though his poor body has long since given in
The Spirit of the “Fighter” knows no such thing!
The last brother in black trunks... puts me in the mind of a cat named Bruce Seldon... I was in a couple of camps sparring him...
ReplyDeleteOh, and I loved this post!!