I saw the patches beneath her eyes,
Her tale of blissful misery.
Her woeful wails feeds your damnation
Day and night makes no difference
Blue black her is her lone colour,
She sees nothing again
Only the stars from your mighty fists.
You are Lord, King and own this aging serf
Whose pores have been filled with bruises.
The hairs torn out by the wrapped cloth from Paris.
Is this the reward for the ring?
Is this the expression of manhood?
It is shame.
Prowess has deluded you.
Strength has failed you.
Weakness has drown the blood to your fists
But she is no Mayweather
Just the flower you were chosen to nurture.
The days of yore cast a rueful look
The elixir lost its grip on you
Now what beast stands before the faded beauty
To thrust into her battered soul.
Here she sneaks to the old Pharm for pills
How long will she continue with the dark googles
Hiding the terror of the bouts?