by Vernon Scannell
A quarter of a century ago
I hung the gloves up, knew I’d had enough
Of taking it and trying to dish it out,
Foxing them or slugging it toe-to-toe;
Keen youngster made the going a bit too rough;
The time had come to have my final bout.
I didn’t run to fat though, kept in shape,
And seriously took up the loving game,
Grew moony, sighed, and even tried to sing,
Looked pretty snappy in my forty-drape.
I lost more than I won, earned little fame,
Was hurt much worse than in the other ring.