His fights were dance and force. The sheen of sweat
On muscle. Wit in eyes. Sharp angry tongue.
He was so beautiful when he was young.
Still so when he had started to forget
And faced his maimed old age with equal grace
As on his day in court great to refuse
A war a name his people did not choose.
His art was punching people in the face.
And being punched. The insults to his brain
Accumulate. We watch we can admire
An energy destruction brilliance fire
And hope we never see his like again.
The greatest and the best his vicious skill.
But greatest when he said he would not kill.