| T H E S W E E T S C I E N C E |
| Each thunderous blow means doom to one
A booming jab means life to the other ; As each and everything come and gone Both fighters stand in the middle, with furor . From red and blue sides they came But the difference ends in their corner ; Their rationale for fighting is the same One’s demise means life for the other . When body and mind can no longer go And all the punches has soften the determination ; As a fighter unleashed the fatal knockout blow The other melted like snow in the sun. As one slumps slowly in the ring And he took his dreams with him ; No longer can his gloved hands bring The force, power, ring savvy and whim. |
| Energy oozing and adrenaline rushing Long after the sound of the bell; The deafening noise now diminishing Like someone casting an oblivious spell. After each hook, straight thrown And receiving the very same infliction; Round after round, blow by blow Blood, sweat and tears flow . Dancing, dodging flickering a few punches Absorbing and taking some thrown in bunches ; Trying hard to conceal pain, distress By throwing hard, vicious uppercuts and crosses . Looking eye to eye, with murderous intent Trying to land each other’s best ; As each bodypunch make each torso twist Still standing toe-to-toe, never retreat |
 |
 |
 |
 |