The Boxer stands in the ring,
A man who used to be King.
Across stands The Young Lion,
A man who will be a King.
The Boxer shakes his aged head,
A man who had fists of lead.
Across scoffs The Young Lion,
A man who has fists of lead.
The Boxer sighs, his last fight,
A man who has lost his light.
Across strides The Young Lion,
A man who gleams with light.
The bell rings, and the fight begins.
The Boxer strikes, though he won’t win.
The Lion roars, winning in ten.
The Boxer slumps to the floor,
A man who can take no more.
Above smiles The Young Lion,
A man who only wants more.
The Boxer smirks as he lay,
A man who knows the way.
Above stands The Young Lion,
A man who knows not the way.
The Boxer leaves, knowing this one thing.
There is always a new and waiting King.