The king of sting wearing a robe of white,
slides through the ropes, he’s ready to fight.
He smiles, dances, preens for the camera,
seated ringside, is that Frank Sinatra?
Fans hoping he’ll lose, praying in fact,
for someone must stop this bad man’s act.
They hate him so much, their eyes are a glare,
but there’s nothing more potent than Ali’s stare.
With springs in his steps, he dances away,
from punches that could make a Cypress sway.
His hands are fast, his feet are lightning quick,
opponent gets hurt with each stinging prick.
The man floats along, he’s taking his time,
soon he will win and talk with a rhyme.
His name was Clay, til he shook up the world,
when he became Ali, his haters hurled.
He said “I am the greatest” who ever did fight,
and tonight he gave reporters something more to write.
– el Furecat
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