I'm just about fed up with this game,
With its bumps and its bruises and bangs.
The dear sweet old ladies in front rows
Sharpening their claws and fangs.
The soft fat man with his blonde girlfriend
Who jabs with his lighted cigar butt,
The bald-headed vulture
Whose battle cry is 'Why Don't You Get Your Hair Cut?'
Those wicked old mums with hatpins
Ready to maim and kill
Umbrellas at the ready, wielding stiletto heel.
Types our dear forefathers would have burned at the stake:
Pencil-necked youths with long black hair,
That greet every fall with 'Fake!'
The jeering, shouting, ignorant lot
Smelling of smoke and rain
I wish they'd jump in the river,
Then I could pull the chain.
The din, the clamour, the peanut shells,
The microphone booming above it,
I'd leave it tomorrow I would I would,
But the trouble is: I love it.
Joe D'Orazio, A Wrestlers Lament.
