The Pugilist Poem by M.W. Ketchel

Standing on weary legs,
the pugilist,
with fists raised
moves into the battle
once again.
The roar of the crowd
curses,
encourages,
blasphemes,
blesses,
its heroes,
willing combatants.
They fight battles
others would flee from,
without regret.
Not fearing punches
thrown from anger
coiled like truck springs
suddenly released,
finding their mark,
the pugilist fights on.
He neither gives nor begs
for quarter.
And if he falls,
if he fails,
he will rise
from bloodstained canvas
as often and as long
as his heart will bear.
Winning is a bonus.
That he stepped into the ring,
made him a hero.
If he leaves victorious,
he is a god,
in that moment
none can take away
from the pugilist.