The Bomber
The Bomber knifes right through your guard
You duck and weave, a bobbing loon
Contentious crashing, bodies scarred
His lightning fists cradle your doom
Twelve timeless rounds against the champ
His blinding hook you never saw
The mildewed taste of canvas damp
Burnt failure sticking in your craw
Faint echoed cheers resounding deep
Thick sweat and blood now sting your eyes
Concealing bitter tears you weep
To throw the towel in or rise
Surrender is the only shame
You stand and square with woozy smile
There’s naught to lose now in life’s game
Better the taste of blood than bile
6/19/16
©Thomas W. Quigley
Mostly iambic tetrameter
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