Mark Heathcote

Give us some poetry? Ali.
Me, we..? (A record breaker)
These are the words
of Muhammad Ali…
Ali—baba-booyah! Ali, is he?
The emperor of Horus…
Sang back the chorus…
Ali—baba-booyah!
Ali—baba-booyah!
All—baba-booyah!
The peoples champion
roaring, catlike a rampant lion!

With lean longlegs of lynxes
the king of all the cobras..?
With a right leading paw…
His jab like a shining red ripsaw...
His words of combat
a poetic—Sting, like a bee
He's a buzzing black gnat
in the ears of Forman's one-man wall?
Fury; surely, he's only another meatball.

(Half-crazed: George Forman
He isn't their American hero their Tarzan) .
"Muhammad Ali…"
Ail—baba-booyah! Ali
The emperor of Horus
they all sang back in chorus.
Ali—baba-booyah!
Ali—baba-booyah!
Ali—baba-booyah!

Hellfire's sharpen up this stirring beast's
anger who isn't yet a baptized priest?
This unleashes the bears raging, blahs! ! !
But in a taciturn of natural, law
a trudging elephant goes sleeping.
Wearily, on the ropes he's waiting...
Tobacco chewing the brawlers
Heart weathering his boulders.

And his own leaf shedding soul
Ali and his admirers console
Muhammad Ali...
Ali—baba-booyah! Ali
The emperor of Horus
comes back the chorus
Ali—baba-booyah!
Ali—baba-booyah!
Ali—baba-booyah!

Meanwhile, me, we..?
Ali, tenderly, inward sobs…
Me, we..? Me, we..?
For "3" whole rounds he bobs,
weaves until his inward sobs.
Awaken his ancestors.
Then does he begin, surly to hear.
A charlatan's heart beat drum...
With no more tantrums too come.
He Ali awakens his African elephant.
Wounded and yet more grievant
it's then, this road turnpikes'.
And Africa's chosen black son!
Ali, the preordained cobra strikes
At Forman the watermelon gatherer
bewildered, headlong-guilty
Of this his own perjure.