Boxing: Poetry In Motion

Spenser T. HarrisonCorrespondent IMay 9, 2009


Convicted felon and killa,

Re-born and self-made in Manila,

Into the connoisseur of the con.

Atop his scheming skull, an iconic grey crown,

Withered and weathered from the past,

Albeit still hell bent,

On the infinite accumulation of dead presidents.

A nefarious fusion of venerate vernacular and primitive thuggary

Exploiting patriotism as a vicious virtue,

Ruthlessly soliciting it to the foolhardy soul.

A politician of the streets,

He’s covered, in a bogus beaurcratic veil.

Masquerading, as a champion of the disenfranchised,

A one many army, plundering the spoils of a sweet science.

His followers are bound not by bondage, servitude, or faith,

But to an inculpable economic covenant.

In truth, he’s The Duke of Deceit, The Sultan of the Swindle,

And his magic lies,

Are his people ties.



Dropping opponents; body shot after body shot,

The Hitman had never been caught.

He’d beat the best,

Until there were two opponents left.

Only the two best remained,

And Ricky believed his flawless record would stay the same.

A victory claimed in every previous bout,

Until Pretty Boy and Pac-Man, knocked him the f**k out.





He’s American as steak and taters,

An occupation built on shakin off haters,

Until he gets enough money, to yell "Check you later!".

Making a living of the tussle,

Using speed, style and grace, he doesn't overwhelm with muscle,

To victimize opponents in his never ending hustle. 

They can call him pretty

But he’ll leave em’ in the ring looking s****y.


Blessed with a sick jab,

And the gift for gab.

He’ll rock the boat,

When there’s a fight to promote.

Leaving critics and opponents hoping he’ll eat crow,

But it always ends with Floyds saying “I told you so.”

Some dislike his mouth, money, the love for bling & finer things,

But so are the spoils of  being the King,

And he proves why every time he steps in that Ring.