A Brawl

 

 

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Yes, I told you, to mess with me will be

like dancing with the devil, you see I’ve

died a thousand lives over, every time my

fists bled from overuse, down at this bar

called The One and Two.

 

Take old Bill over there, he used to be

the drunk who beat up his woman, kicked

them, spat on their souls, he came here

with evil one night to take me on, he now

has gained total respect for who he called

the weaker sex.

 

I told him there is no weaker sex, its all in

man’s perception, I wrestled a bear once

and let me tell you, respect was shown,

fur flew, blood spilled, but we both gave

in and crawled to our corners with

total respect.

 

You see a brawl is something that every

man deep inside wishes for, but only a

few will dare take that road, many more

will brag about it, never once lifting a

fist, wishing they had the balls to do so,

but that takes true grit.

 

Many a John Wayne’s want to be until

the crunch, I stood back to back one

night in here, with mean old Leroy Brown,

and him and I laid the hammer down,

taking on those clowns who brag about

their toughness all over town.

 

I always carry a spare white tee shirt in

my trunk, you see, they turn into rags,

torn and scuffed with the blood from

bar room scuffs.

 

A white tee I wear with pride, my cigarette

pack tightly folded inside, ready for the

next fellow who wants to be a hero, and

lift his fists from his side, to smack down

on my face with his boots buried in my sides.

 

I’ve lived this life in the past and

sometimes had my ass kicked, but never

ever backing down, for nobody who

wants to prove to me that they are a

somebody better be ready for a back

room brawl.

 

The One and Two club is that place

where you were frisked before entering,

they want a clean fight, not a shooting

or a stabbing, but it happened, they

came out of nowhere at times and a

life went where it often belonged, to

Hell where the brawls never end.

 

© Copyright Vincent Moor. All Rights Reserved.

 

 


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