Fight Game Poem by Paul Butters

The battle is minutes away.

George shudders with anxiety, the adrenalin pumping as he approaches the ring.

His mean-looking entourage surround him as the last bets are laid.
It’s The Grand Final. The supreme championship is at stake.
He aches to win this one but knows his opponent has a tremendous pounding in mind for him.

This will be a fight to the finish.

Spectators throng and crush around the arena, all eyes fixed on the central pair.

Announcements over, the war begins.
George, concerned about previous cuts, makes a cautious start.
Encouragement from his seconds rings in his ears.
His opponent opens with a wild, swinging haymaker but misses.

George keeps jabbing.

Then horror, a cut!

The enemy goes for the kill. The big one.
Lucky escape.

Then just as suddenly the tide turns.
George’s crunching swipe finds its target. A cut! Hope!
Now he swings frantically for all he’s worth.

With a rending crack, the fragments of his opponent’s conker are scattered
All over the floor.
Sweet Victory.

(W) and © PB 27\4\2008, from a story Written October 1968.