Oh, Heavyweight Time, you have boxed with such
champions as Shakespeare and Spencer before,
and though next to you, they don’t seem like much,
each one left you ten seconds on the floor.
A well-timed, rhymed line can break your block, or
an assonant jab can do grievous harm.
You have been beaten by poets, but more:
they have immortalized their lovers’ charms.
I’m just a farm boy with spindly arms;
my uppercut couldn’t cut up an ant,
let alone give you a cause for alarm.
You ask why I strive to do what I can’t?
To prove to my love that I am devout,
I won’t stop punching till I knock you out.
Last Read: Moriarty, by Anthony Horowitz
Reading: The Portable Atheist, edited by Christopher Hitchens
Will Read: The Selfish Gene, by RIchard Dawkins