There once was a prizefighting cop named Mick
Whose two fists flew furiously quick
He saw a big rowdy drunk
Whose awful breath really stunk
Mick flashed his badge, then took out his nightstick
But that drunk was truly a great poet
And his whiskey-fueled lips really showed it:
"Hey, cop, watch my lips
As I rotate my hips
~ You're a mite light, and everyone knows it"
Categories:
prizefighting, drink, gender, poets, sports,
Form: Limerick
I walk with a cane, disabled is how I've been rendered.
My prizefighting career is over, I cannot be a contender.
Even though some crooks insisted, I wouldn't take a dive.
If the police hadn't come along, I wouldn't even be alive.
Those criminals broke my ribs and shattered my knee caps.
They were going to make damn certain that I took a dirt nap.
I still have nightmares because of what happened to me.
I refused to take that dive because of my integrity.
Not being able to become a champion really hurts a lot.
If you're wondering if I regret not taking that dive, I do not.
I'm happy that those crooks are in jail, I'm not forgiving.
And I'm extremely grateful to the police to be living.
I can't fight anymore but I still have a whole lot to gain.
I met a fighter and he's a man who I intend to train.
Those crooks ended my career but they couldn't keep me down.
I intend to make the best of my life while I am around.
(This is a fictional poem.)
Categories:
prizefighting, inspirational, career, integrity,
Form: Rhyme