His tongue was the greatest.
Now it plays rope a dope
against teeth and roof of mouth
and words twist out slow
as from a drunk.
He’s a ghost of the young man
who playfully taunted and shouted
“I’m King Of The World.”
Witless, as his puffy face
behind the palsied hands
fights off Parkinson’s left hooks,
he leans so far back
into a plush chair,
that part of him has flown
over the ropes into the next world.
All sparkle and spirit
escaped those knock out eyes
before his cornerman ever threw in the towel.
