Mohammed Ali was a boxer who sometimes dabbled in
poetry. It came from a place of personal
truth and, as such, had a potency that has echoed throughout the years,
sustaining the man’s myth in a way his fists might not have on their own. You took this lesson and totally fucked it
up, however.
You’re a poet who boxes.
This isn’t necessarily exceptional.
There are plenty of pugnacious poets who box or used to box who maybe
even pay their bills by teaching kids to box.
But you’re first and foremost a poet, and you refuse to even lift a
glove during a fight.
“I let my words fight for me,” you proudly tell local news
sources who want to hear more about your story.
When they go on to ask you how many fights you’ve won and how you see
your legacy as a boxer taking shape, you consistently dodge the question with a
series of snickers, laughs and the occasional “You crazy for this one.”
The reality, as the intrepid local reporter interviewing you
will soon discover, is that you’ve never won a fight. In fact, you’ve lost every fight you’ve ever
been in in record time, perhaps in part because of the fact that safety
regulations require you to wear a mouthpiece, which obscures the aforementioned
words you attempt to fight with.
You’re also, as you know yourself, a terrible, terrible
boxer. And poet. Really, just a shit guy all around. But hey, you got on the TV!
Congratulations Boxing Failure!
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