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Poem	But yesterday I banked on fistic fame, Figgerin' I'd be a champion of the Ring. Today I've half a mind to quit the Game, For all them rosy dreams have taken wing, Since last night a secondary bout I let a goddam nigger knock me out. It must have been that T-bone steak I ate; They might have doped it, them smart gambling guys, For round my heart I felt a heavy weight, A stab of pain that should have put me wise. But oh the cheering of the fans was sweet, And never once I reckoned on defeat. I had the nigger licked - twice he went down, And there was just another round to go. I played with him, I made him look a clown, Yet he was game, and traded blow for blow. And then that piston pain, the dark of doom . . . Like meat they lugged me to my dressing-room. So that's the pay-off to my bid for fame. But yesterday my head was in the sky, And now I slink and sag in sorry shame, And hate to look my backers in the eye. They think I threw the fight; I sorto' feel The ringworms rate me for a lousy heel. Oh sure I could go on - but gee! it's rough To be a pork-and-beaner at the best; To beg for bouts, yet getting not enough To keep a decent feed inside my vest; To go on canvas-kissing till I come To cadge for drinks just like a Bowery bum. Hell no! I'll slug my guts out till I die. I'll be no bouncer in a cheap saloon. I'll give them swatatorium scribes the lie, I'll make a come-back, aye and pretty soon. I'll show them tinhorn sports; I'll train and train, I'll hear them cheer - oh Christ! the pain, the PAIN . . . Stable-Boss: "Poor punk! you're sunk - you'll never scrap again."
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