by Nick Gisburne
We stitch the bleeding pieces, flesh and bone
And bind this mongrel creature to the boards
The zebra-stripes on every seam are sewn
A badge of pride, of rank and rich rewards
With halting tics and fits, the freak awakes
The scale of his potential all too clear
And as the field of force around him breaks
All doubts that he is ready disappear
Accelerating power to its peak
A nutrient injection stirs his rage
He breathes and bends, exploring his physique
The sleet and slush of winter set the stage
The title bout, ‘The Smackdown in the Snow’
Is fifteen rounds of murder, toe to toe
