Rumble In The Jungle Poem by Mark Heathcote

Give us some poetry? Ali.
Me, we..? (A record-breaker)
these are the words
-of Muhammad Ali
Ali—baba-booyah, Ali, is he?
The emperor of Horus
sang back the chorus
Ali—baba-booyah
Ali—baba-booyah
All—baba-booyah
The people's champion
roaring, catlike a rampant lion.

With lean longlegs of lynxes
the king of all the cobras?
With a right leading paw
his jab like a shining red ripsaw
his words of combat
a poetic—sting, like a bee
he's buzzing like a black gnat
in the ears of Forman's one-man-wall.
Fury; surely, he's only another meatball.

(Half-crazed: George Forman
he isn't their American hero their Tarzan)
'Muhammad Ali...'
Ail—baba-booyah, Ali
The emperor of Horus
they all sang back in chorus.
Ali—baba-booyah
Ali—baba-booyah
Ali—baba-booyah

Hellfire sharpen up this stirring beast's
anger who isn't yet a baptized priest?
This unleashes the bears raging blahs! ! !
But in a taciturn of natural, law
a trudging elephant goes sleeping.
Wearily, on the ropes, he's waiting
tobacco chewing the brawlers
heart weathering his boulders.

And his own leaf shedding soul
Ali and his admirer's console
Muhammad Ali
Ali—baba-booyah, Ali
The emperor of Horus
comes back the chorus
Ali—baba-booyah
Ali—baba-booyah
Ali—baba-booyah

Meanwhile, me, we..?
Ali, tenderly, inward sobs
Me, we..? Me, we..?
For 3-whole rounds, he bobs
weaves until his inward sobs.
Awaken his ancestors.
Then does he begin, surely to hear?
A charlatan's heartbeat drum...
With no more tantrums to come.
He Ali awakens his African elephant.
Wounded and yet more grievant
it's then, this road turnpikes.'
And Africa's chosen black son
Ali, the preordained cobra strikes
at Forman, the watermelon gatherer
bewildered, headlong-guilty
of this his own perjure.