The Boxer



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 never shy of a hard-fought fight
There is no longer within the feeling of delight

His face has too often been made to pay
By an opponent far 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.