The Contender

The contender I have not met many famous people in me continues life but I have seen three kings, the first one who, when old broke his leg for a reason not clear to me, died from the accident that involved a horse His son took over, he liked to dress in an admiral uniform fond of sailing and cocktails, as was Hercules Poirot when he died, his son became king, a quiet man who has not done anything legendary. Of course, they were only famous for being kings in them little country not like Alan Ladd and Jack Dempsey I saw a warm summer night in New York; Alan was short and Jack was tall, and they walked into a bar. My life is a modest one, hamburger cook when not sitting In a pub with other pretenders, talking about art, which we had not seen other than in magazines and books we had read, thinking we’re intellectuals. Not that I complain, I once took an acting course, but nothing came out of it, even though friends said I was talented doing press-ups with one arm behind my back while drinking a pint of beer.