Boxer

I wasn't born with long elegant God-limbs to race across the flowered plains of heaven I was conceived from the hammer and anvil of a gray witted, quick to anger blacksmith. My shoulders will never feel a spray of red roses my only friend will be a bucket of second hand oats no soft palms will stroke my dull-matted flanks only whips of attrition to hold me to this lowely rank. I'll spend a lifetime plowing uphill and moving stone loyal to a fault at the expense of my soul-bones. When my days are sprinkled over with ice and snow when my back is beyond bent and ribs start to show there'll be no tears-accolades or sweet eulegies only harsh words and sharp tug into the darkness and a long bumpy jaunt to the glue factory.