The Boxer stood within the ring,
His muscles glistened with sweat.
His breathing controlled, his arms held up,
His opponent not ready, yet.

At last the ring side bell calls out,
The fighters commence their sport.
A strange barbaric ritual it is,
As with pain and death, they court.

Soon the sizing up is done,
Weaknesses found and sought.
The boxers start to slug it out,
Many times have these men fought.

“Ding!” the first round ends so fast,
Both men not quite so fresh.
They sit and stare across the canvas,
As their seconds tend their flesh.

The fight drags on, the men both weaken,
The crowd now roar for blood.
The 15th round, they’ve gone the distance,
They move as if in mud,

A false move made, one gets advantage,
And presses it hard and fast.
Glazed eyes stare back, arms now held useless,
For him, defence is past.

Up against the ropes he sways,
Unconscious on his feet,
The crowd fades into silence,
The lights blur into heat.

A roaring noise now fills his head,
Pictures flash within his mind.
A face he feels he should recognise,
But disappears, unsigned.

At last his body hits the deck,
The bell tolling the time.
The white towel floating through the air,
Too late to stop this crime.

The winner punches the air with joy,
Unaware of how far he’s gone.
The loser will never punch again,
Except, in oblivion.

MMTM - [Started 04-Jan-93, finished 23-Apr-93]