10th Round.


Tenth Round.




I enter the graphite
on a white square,
ring bound.

A Eberhard

veteran of many
other documented


Fist clenched
around a

sharpened spear,
lead tipped
and ready to strike.

Staring down

my lifelong nemesis
a mental blockhead
who has left me reeling,
in so many

other titled bouts
of split decisons.

He swings

with a strong left,
leaving an

exclamation mark
on my chances
as my thoughts

desert me.

But I counter

with a pure write.
Scrabbling furiously
over the dead space,
till he tumbles

much like a toddler's
first grasp of gravity.

Expired even

as I am inspired,
Joyously I am hoisted
on the shouders

of success,
clutching my

latest prize.

A puga-list of
poetic pontifications,
declaring me
the champion

of puns.

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