A right hook hits him on the nose
It's not just stars he sees, but sky
The fight's no time to wonder why.
That last punch hit like granite stone
He's on the mat, out cold, alone
The Ring's a noisy, hostile place
Where no one has a friendly face.
And those who watch must be queer fish
With violence their only wish
Would he were many miles away
This boxing lark just does not pay!
For all his pains, a prize black eye
A punchline in his personal sky.
(c) Poet in the woods 2015
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