The Last Round

by William

He ducked straight into the punch

His eye socket badly damaged

His brain smashed into his skull

His nose flattened against his face


He’s on all fours on the canvas

Blood dripping down his face

The referee is starting the count

He’s up at eight, delaying his fate


Outboxed and outpunched, things not going his way

If knocked down, there he’s likely to stay

He is boxing like a puppet on a string

Desperately waiting for that final bell to ring


Another blow to the head

Leaves him flat on his back

Gets to his feet, not looking too well

He then hears the sweet sound of the bell


He falls from his stool inside the ring

Lands on the canvas, he’s not seeing a thing

His pulse is taken, the news is not good

Got the ambulance as quick as they could


He’s damaged like a window in a storm

Cracked into fissures of some alien form

He wanders around, with nowhere to go

Will he recover, they don’t think so



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