One of the 1st poems that I ever wrote. Performed at the Brix-tongue night in the old Brixton Art Gallery.
Fight Night (2002)
“Come one, Come all,
If you think that you can stand tall,
I’m with my friends & we tend to pass comment on all,
And each other,
Though we’re brothers our insults can smother,
One after another they get tougher,
But: Don’t mention my mother,
‘Cos I’ll revel on that level & make YOU run for cover,”
Your Mother’s so short she can walk right under your bed,
Without bowing her head or bending her legs,
And wearing them thick high heels, 9 inches for real?
If being short was a crime, she’d be denied an appeal,
It’s Fight Night,
And we’ve got it hooked up on satellite,
So say that you,
Are ready to see a battle right?
But it’s that “pre-match” banter,
That evolves a gallop from a canter,
We all proclaim Boxing knowledge…
…but our ’facts’ are weak like old Fanta,”
Yeah, yeah, yeah,
Tyson should fake with the left & break with two rights,
Just like Clubber Lang did in that ’82 fight,
Clubber Lang, Lubber clang,
You know the one that punches like steel?
“Wasn’t that Mr T in Rocky 3?
Man, that sh*t’s not even real!”
But he still faked with the left & blasted with the right,
So what if it was on TV last night?
Mr T’s style’s still tight!
Are you tryin’ to say in your own way that Bruce lee, him can’t fight?
“Man, you don’t know nuthin!
But it’s hard to tell when you’re bluffin’
It’s like that time you swore blind that McDonald’s sold ragamuffins,
It’s really something bro,
I know I called your number waaaay back,
Like when you thought, that if they fought: He-Man could whup the Thundercats,”
“It makes me wonder that,
You’ve got no clue about boxing,
Tyson’s gonna lose unless he proves he can get those early shots in,
You’re just like Jimmy White braggin’ ‘bout his wicked top-spin,
It’s who performs on the day,
You could be good & still NOT win!”
Is that your best argument?
Is that the best it’s gonna be?
‘Cos if so, I’m laughing at them lame lyrics laid on me,
You’re Penry the Janitor tryin’ to play Hong Kong Phooey,
While I’m Boba-Fett on your set,
So let your Han-Solo Freeze!
A Tyson punch rocks to your knees,
Like a deadly disease,
It makes your Father cough & wheeze,
And your Mother say “Pleaaaase!!!!”
“Don’t Mention My Mother!!”
Ok, I apologise.
But you know what I mean,
Lewis will be passing red fluid when Tyson ruptures his spleen,
He’ll retire early & quit the team like Roy Keane,
Now that’s a mathematical fact,
And you just gotta accept that,
Just like the best bleach is Domestos while Ajax is wack,
When you lay your facts like that, I can see your point,
But you forget Lewis’s jab, which like the Pope will anoint,
Tyson’s lip & send him trippin’ like he hit his 1st joint,
You’ll see him quit & take up knitting,
Rather than lose it on points,”
We’re gonna settle this sh*t,
‘Cos the fight’s starting shortly,
But your argument’s a “one bar Twix”
While I’m a “Full-sized Yorkie!”
Mr Gee © 2002