Rough and tumble
Kick and slap
Bite and nibble
Pin you down
Trip and tickle
Grip and grapple
Wrestle and roughhouse
Pull your hair, pull mine back
Accidentally touch my rack
Just a playfight
All violent, like
Hug and handshake
A fair game
I'm a good sport, humble winner
Until next time
I'll end ya!
I do like to playfight. Based on a wrestle I had with a friend a while ago.
Byron and I play
The All Topics Open.
Invariably draws nostalgic.
Byron mentioned he went to the WWF in Detroit.
I sliced into a childhood memory
Of midgets at Cobo Hall:
Cobo Hall, Saturday Night. Be there!
Byron started pitching old wrestlers and holds:
Leaping Larry Shane, great with the Anaconda Vice;
Killer Kowalski vs. Bobo Brazil, pinned by the Crucifix and Abdominal Stretch;
**** the Bruiser tagging with The Sheik
To defeat Gorgeous George and Crybaby McCarthy.
Byron went on in detail, with tabernacle authority:
“It was a Bear Hug that quickly swung in to a Quarter,
then Full Nelson;
Crybaby bounced off a knee,
Was driven to the mat and pinned
By a Front Sleeper.”
(Jimmy's newborn picture faded in,
and the pose he naturally struck
cocked like a sideshow muscle man
Daddy quipped: **** the Bruiser.
I was Leaping Larry Shane.
Daddy quipped: Larry the Stooge.
I didn't see that move)
Byron was intense. I could hear, but
I was zoning.
Crybaby and Front Sleeper dazed me.
How time Venns.
I was pinned today.
I recognized the feeling.
Tagged, then pinned by
You know the hold.
On your back.
Baby on chest, face down.
Jimmy was my baby brother. He was killed by a drunk driver.
When I was young
My mother wouldn’t let me watch
Wresting on TV
She said it would make me want to fight
For a living
And she didn’t want to raise a daughter
So instead I strapped
Kindness to my fists
And pushed beautiful words between my teeth
a vow of never leaving anyone to the lying voices in their head.
I chose a stance where my neck was available
In case someone in their war decided they need to hide for a while
In my arms
And bury their face away from the world
allowing our fung shei of friendship to arrange furniture pieces
of our humble home
which our relationship created together.
I chose this world
Of quiet starting bells,
where the only coach was my consciousness yelling
Did you fight the very best you could?
And I would say
And regardless of the answer,
he’d get in my face and yell
And I’d nod and say,
Of course sir.
But I didn’t expect someone to enter the ring,
Put a mirror in front of my face, and say
And I didn’t expect blood to fall from my mouth
In pools spelling out the words I never dared to say
I didn’t expect my bones to shatter
Turning quickly to powder from only
The light refracting off a piece of shined glass
My shoulders born to hold lost souls were
In this fight
Don’t get me wrong;
I had been beaten before,
But no one who had left me this damaged,
No one who made my coach shake his head,
No one who brought me terrified at the thought of entering the ring again
And the only enemy I had fought was myself.
Another win, another celebration.
Fifteen world championships
But are you ready? For the beast?
Because rumors are swirling
That he’s been released.
Four men are the least of your worries,
Because you’re about to be interrupted
On this golden journey.
You've defeated him once before,
But he is no longer weak.
As he is much stronger
Since he defeated the deadman's streak.
Now he’s coming for you,
And your championship.
It’s not so much another run,
But for the pain he loves to inflict.
So forget Mr. Money in the Bank,
And the four other gladiators.
Enjoy your title run now, Cena.
Because Brock Lesnar is an annihilator
This poem is about professional wrestler John Cena winning his fifteenth world championship (which is pretty much a big deal) and the obstacles he is rumored to be facing after the next pay per view. I am a HUGE pro wrestling fan and I've been writing a lot of pro wrestling poems lately. I actually don't think this one is that bad.
— The End —