Poetry

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I’m still a-swinging

I’ll rather be a scrappy fighter than an elegant non-starter.
Rather a bloodied nose with hands held triumphant in the air
than a refusal to fight the next round for fear of defeat
Better to be battered, rend and torn, turned black n’ blue and still got my fight inside me
Than to walk away with a whimper, hoping the next bone won’t bring a fight

If it’s true that it’s not the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog.
Then it’s also true that it’s not the fierceness of the opposition that cost you the war, it’s the refusal to give up that wins you each round
Let the battle of life meet this dog at the opponent’s corner, swinging away

So then though I see no more for blood-filled eyes, I’ll keep swinging
Though my ears ring from punches till I hear no more, I’ll be swinging
my feet feel so tired I can’t move another step, yet I’ll stay swinging
though my heart pounds like it’s going to burst, I’ll take another swing
The man who keeps swinging will never lose.

You mutter, shaking your head “crazy man… dog, headed for an early grave”
Well then, put as my epitaph- “died early, died swinging-at the opponent’s corner.
Refused to go out into the night without a fight”.

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