But yesterday I banked on fistic fame, <br />Figgerin' I'd be a champion of the Ring. <br />Today I've half a mind to quit the Game, <br />For all them rosy dreams have taken wing, <br />Since last night a secondary bout <br />I let a goddam nigger knock me out. <br /> <br />It must have been that T-bone steak I ate; <br />They might have doped it, them smart gambling guys, <br />For round my heart I felt a heavy weight, <br />A stab of pain that should have put me wise. <br />But oh the cheering of the fans was sweet, <br />And never once I reckoned on defeat. <br /> <br />I had the nigger licked - twice he went down, <br />And there was just another round to go. <br />I played with him, I made him look a clown, <br />Yet he was game, and traded blow for blow. <br />And then that piston pain, the dark of doom . . . <br />Like meat they lugged me to my dressing-room. <br /> <br />So that's the pay-off to my bid for fame. <br />But yesterday my head was in the sky, <br />And now I slink and sag in sorry shame, <br />And hate to look my backers in the eye. <br />They think I threw the fight; I sorto' feel <br />The ringworms rate me for a lousy heel. <br /> <br />Oh sure I could go on - but gee! it's rough <br />To be a pork-and-beaner at the best; <br />To beg for bouts, yet getting not enough <br />To keep a decent feed inside my vest; <br />To go on canvas-kissing till I come <br />To cadge for drinks just like a Bowery bum. <br /> <br />Hell no! I'll slug my guts out till I die. <br />I'll be no bouncer in a cheap saloon. <br />I'll give them swatatorium scribes the lie, <br />I'll make a come-back, aye and pretty soon. <br />I'll show them tinhorn sports; I'll train and train, <br />I'll hear them cheer - oh Christ! the pain, the PAIN . . . <br /> <br />Stable-Boss: <br />"Poor punk! you're sunk - you'll never scrap again."<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beak-bashing-boy/
