The Bomber

The Bomber knifes right through your guard You duck and weave, a bobbing loon Contentious crashing, bodies scarred His lightning fists cradle your doom Twelve timeless rounds against the champ His blinding hook you never saw The mildewed taste of canvas damp Burnt failure sticking in your craw Faint echoed cheers resounding deep Thick sweat and blood now sting your eyes Concealing bitter tears you weep To throw the towel in or rise Surrender is the only shame You stand and square with woozy smile There’s naught to lose now in life’s game Better the taste of blood than bile 6/19/16 ©Thomas W. Quigley Mostly iambic tetrameter