The Pugilist Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The pugilist is thick as a stick
Of fairground rock

Too many times he's been knocked
Into a cocked hat

He's dished out plenty of gob stoppers
On the way
Lickety-spit, he's turned teeth into sherbet
But he's taken too many bulls eyes
To the head.
Now his brain is a rattle bag of blue smarties

His nose is pug-shaped,
Smooth as a Toby jug
His hollow legs are full
Of the cup that cheers and deadens

His veins are strings of jingle bells
Ready to pop like bubble-gum

A heart attack waiting to happen