Louisville, Kentucky, ’42
When one such Cassius Clay rose from seemingly nothing to amount to quite questionably everything – lower class to masterclass and all of it just about to happen, seems these seriously smiling faces had been waiting the world over, fate about to play its decidedly righteous card
Blindingly tapestried, intricately steered amidst mind-boggling bouts of momentary jeers – those racist individuals who fail to hold a single clue
It took the brash nature of the streets for him to meet his competitive streak head on – the taste too ferocious altogether, atrociously well skilled
Homegrown, prone to brilliance – rather beautifully instilled
Mesmerisingly hungry as well as carrying with him a pair of clean-as-a-whistle fists which just will not quit, ’til that smouldering golden belt gets to finally romanticise atop proudly caress his juvenile waist
The taste forever there, lingering, utterly prepared to stop at absolutely nothing
Strut your stuff Black Panther, just goddamn strut…
‘Til we suddenly get to hurt all over again in a most soliloquy fashion, the way it was meant to be
Remind us again
For these passionate memories are always fleeting however great

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