The Count Of Eight-Boxing Poem Poem by Melvina Germain

She smiled as she never smiled before,
A solemn, cold, mean sort of smile.
A smile that says, hey look at me, I don't care.
You want a piece of me, well baby I'm here.
Come get me, I'm without fear.

She took her stand in the center of the ring,
Cased her opponent with a look that could sting.
Her radiant form displayed much desire.
She was about to put the house on fire.

Back and forth she danced around.
Weaving and bobbing, feet barely touching the ground.
Her opponent threw a punch, missed for sure.
She tried and tried but missed more and more.

Dancing and bobbing, a pretty sight to see.
This awesome lady stings like a bee.
She takes her stance and moves in for the kill.
An upper cut to the jaw, down goes poor Syll.

Syll lays still on the canvas floor.
The referee starts the count, one-two-three-four.
Syll tries to raise her head, but it's just too late.
The count is over, five-six-seven-eight.