Local Lad

 I never saw a face so bright
 With brilliant blood and joy,
As was the grinning mug last night
 Of Dick, our local boy,
When with a clumsy, lucky clout
 He knocked the champion out.


A week ago he swung a pick
 And sweated in a ditch.

Tonight he's togged up mighty slick,
 And fancies himself rich.

With floozies, fine food, bubbly drink
 He'll go to hell I think.


Unless they make another match;
 And if they do I guess
The champion won't have a scratch,
 But Dick will be a mess;
His map will be a muck of gore
 As he sprawls on the floor.


Then he'll go back his pick to swing,
 And sweat deep in the mud .
 .
 .

Yet still I see him in the ring,
 So gay with glee and blood,
Dancing a jig and holding high
 His gloves to climb the sky.

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