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Cassius Mohammed Ali Clay |
In this Picture
Muhammed Ali is smiling,
He must be 23
He shows me love and boxing gloves,
What kind of man is he?
Somehow he found honour,
In the violentist of sport
People really worship him,
Him, the striking sort.
I know little of him,
Except for all the hype,
Blast for blast, he still had class,
And integrity for life.
People think him sporting,
Man amongst men,
Greatest boxer of all time.
But I don’t look like them.
Outside of that arena,
Of their gambled blood,
Is where Muhammed really shone
And weighed in all he could.
Who would of thought a boxer
Would impact social life
In concentrated ways, Cassius Clay
Gently had done right.
And over in this picture
Today Muhammed is down,
With Parkinson’s disease,
He recently had come to town,
To see ‘Fighting Ali’.
The eloquent tongue now says none,
Damage to the brain,
He holds himself with dignity,
And that’s just what he’s saying.
Years and more he’s 64,
Or something around there,
From butterfly back to the cocoon,
The living never was fare.
Why must a man be violent?
To make a mark in life,
With half a chance he did all he can,
With just a flicker of light.
Romance or a tragedy?
What point of view to hold?
Painting still life glory,
In a lifetime bought and sold.
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