That's gotta hurt, we say
Look look, he’s punch-drunk, he's reeling. He’s trying to roll against the rope-a-dope, but uh uh, he’s going down, down this round to the mat where his eye is bleeding on the canvas in this corner.
He was up, up on his toes, dancing, dancing and jabbing, trying to reuse his famous last minute throws when that right got him. Flatfooted. Cold. (Poor bastard). Hear the crack of the fist against his head? Watch that slow motion whip of his face screwed up in pain. You coulda been, coulda been old man but this here’s the washing up, the sports writers say through soggy-butted cigars, and it’s over.
It was rigged, he says, stacked, jerried, and he cries, standing alone in the light in the ring with the bruise swelling purple around his eye.
Every loser says that though, it’s nothing - ‘t’s just another shitty boxing cliché.