The poem
I never saw a face so bright With brilliant blood and joy, As was the grinning mug last night Of Dick, our local boy, When with a clumsy, lucky clout He knocked the champion out.
A week ago he swung a pick And sweated in a ditch. Tonight he's togged up mighty slick, And fancies himself rich. With floozies, fine food, bubbly drink He'll go to hell I think.
Unless they make another match; And if they do I guess The champion won't have a scratch, But Dick will be a mess; His map will be a muck of gore As he sprawls on the floor.
Then he'll go back his pick to swing, And sweat deep in the mud . . . Yet still I see him in the ring, So gay with glee and blood, Dancing a jig and holding high His gloves to climb the sky.