Monday, September 7, 2009


In his lonely corner sitting on a stool,

Waiting for the bell to ring to start another duel.

His nose is bent and flattened, scars around his eyes,

Reminders of past contests for some elusive prize:

A decisive victory, a purse replete with gold,

A fight crowd’s wild ovation, a title belt to hold.

Now he fights for modest means; he loses more than wins.

His speech is slurred as though he’s drunk a few too many gins.

The bell declares it’s time for war. He springs to meet his foe.

In the early testing rounds, they trade cautious blow for blow.

As the battle wages on, he soon begins to tire.

His punches lose their jolting sting, less urgent his desire.

He bobs and weaves to no avail, his footwork once so swift

No longer keeps him safe from harm, his focus starts to drift.

A mighty right haymaker catches him off guard.

He clutches weakly for the ropes, then hits the canvas hard.

The referee counts him out and lifts the victor’s glove.

The loser dreams of better days: of triumph, youth and love.

When he regains his senses he’s but closer to the end:

No money, no cheering crowd, no title to defend.

Why choose a sport whose aim it is to one’s opponent maim?

If your battered brain is dead, what good are wealth and fame?

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