A pare of bleary, bloodshot eyes, peered out beneath his shaggy brows,
a disinterested look that could no idle curiosity arouse.
His broken nose, disfigured ears, gave away his violent past,
his incoherent, mumbled speech meant, no one need ask
His tattered, threadbare, faded jeans sported a thick cord round the waist,
fashion had passed him by, in favour of a more personal taste
His avant-garde discoloured trainers, worn well down at the heels
his sunken cheeks, would indicate, not much in the way of meals
His hobby was picking winners, out of an outdated evening news
with the air of an entrepreneur stock broker, seeking the crossword clues
As he tried to assemble his wayward thoughts to when he was champ of the ring
no shortage of friends in those far off days to his hangers on he was king.
When he went in his local tavern it was always “drinks all round”
nobody needed to buy a drink, whenever the champ could be found
Now he just sat there cross legged, a few coins in his cap on the ground
nobody knew this wreck of a man. was the greatest boxer in town