[Brass Body]

Any great warrior is also a scholar, and a poet, and an artist.

Pride of Lowell, when I ignite, there's no sight of a white towel,
my strikes are foul, throwing rights until these guy's lights are out.
Goodbye for now, lightening isn't half as blinding as my haymaker,
surprise the crowd, thriving simply from fighting these day breakers.
Ten rounds of pain, surrounded by hounds who prowl on prey,
my ground is laid, brain bouncing around from clouts and sways.
My mouth aches, legs numb from blood flooding out my face,
count to eight, break this lame's esophagus once I found my pace.
My arm is raised, the scars leave wishes like stars in outer space,
if Mars had a stage, Martians would witness my art of power displayed.
My heart is enslaved, God pardon my image but a coward, I ain't,
I'm a shark in waves... an artist who's lifted by that hour of fame.
Things started to fade, the cards were played and I fell apart with age,
darkness was my cage, sharpened my faith but Hell barred my chains.

A scholar no more; I'm stronger, a monster who conquered the sport,
no longer on course, I pondered and wondered off from offers of war.
Conjure the norm, shoot, maybe I'll tie my boots after I fall to the storm,
Arturo vs Ward; two of the greatest lives to bloom from the boxing form.
Essence of the ring, we've crossed the line between legends and kings,
left with the breeze... boxing hasn't been right since the death of Gotti.
Presence is key, we were shocking audience without the help of a tweet,
best in the scene... knocking out anybody with the spell of a swing.
We lived the dream, didn't listen to media or give it anything to eat,
just fists and technique, submitted an entire living by giving up peace.
Pride of Lowell, days and nights under those lights, my life was sound,
my strikes were foul, now I drain time like it's a Guinness stout.