Muscle and Heart
The bell rings out loudly, signals the start,
must earn my keep through the pugilist’s art,
my foe is a tall one, beats me in reach,
to get in close my trainer sought to teach,
where those long arms won’t do him any good,
but right now his jabs hit link planks of wood,
I bob and weave, and I duck some of them,
but he’s a trip-hammer, again and again.
Duck and dive in, swing straight for hit gut,
just missing his skull, and a nasty headbutt,
like old Marciano, I pound at his ribs,
to steal the man’s breath, like Mickey Ward did.
He grimaces, struggles, but doesn’t play tough,
just does the smart thing, and ties my arms up,
the ref break us up, both of us can breathe,
then jabs come again, my eye starts to bleed,
but I break the jab, and drive close on in,
the blood just the cost for getting near him;
a hard way to make a dollar, that’s true,
but what else is a man like me to do?
I’ve known all along that I ain’t that smart,
and always got by on muscle and heart.
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