Bitter, battered, bruised and spent
Throwing punches aimed to dent,
Bobbing, weaving, sighing loud,
Gladiators playing to the crowd.
Armed with words that cut like steel
Inflicting wounds that won't fast heal,
Nostrils flaring, bulging eyes,
Parrying blows with stifled sighs.
Indignation, slights of old,
Each man's purpose bitter, cold,
One sole aim, that fatal blow,
Boiling anger on full show.
As to us the silent horde
Stunned...
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