Hungry as hell, if a little bruised and battered from having to re-enter the ring time and time again
Nonetheless, I still wait on just one thing with bated breath, that party-hard bell
A gray shock-haired  promoter fastened to his corner with just one thing on his mind, money, praying to the high heavens that this boxer somehow manages to quell all of the doubt going on inside his own head, a psychotic nature that over the years makes the audience swell, they know all too well, one right-hook and I can safely put this fight to bed
A reputation which needs solidifying, for me to defy the odds and end up on a par with Ali, the truest of champions, float like a butterfly, sting like a bee
But that just ain’t me, I have my own way, get hit hard and I may well sway but this barbequed slab of meat will almost always remain upright, momentary fright only ever adding to the makings of a box office night
That belt, it just belongs to me, wrapped right round my waist, with my feet on the ropes I bare those pearly whites, let other boxers know that the taste is still there, ferociously so
Psychotic or not, I realise the show must go on

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