With brick dust on my back,
And my chin in the air,

I had the sun in my eyes,
And you weren’t fighting fair,

It was a war of attrition,
12 years or 12 rounds,

The battle already lost,
But the bell never sounds,

So I stay on my toes,
Keep sharp, stick and move,

Feel that chip on my shoulder
I have something to prove,

The sweet taste of copper,
Blood dried out like rust,

Only me in my corner,
The only person I trust,

So I swing for the fences,
But prepare for the fall,

For you truly earn nothing,
Without risking it all.