The Boxer Who Just Returned from London

I'm a boxer who's just returned from London
My trainer is of German descent
Though he grew up in the suburbs of Los Angeles
His father used to beat him with the strap
If he didn't mow the lawn exactly right

This made him a hell of a scrapper
But because of the insecurities passed on by his dad
He took to the bottle young
Which slowed his reflexes
Made him unreliable
And his body unable to take the physical abuse
So, he spent his twenties and thirties
Drifting from El Paso to New Orleans
Staying in these shitty rooming houses
Training local middleweights
In these smelly, rundown gyms
All the while chasing the bottle
And women who would call him ugly to his face

I met him in a London library
He was catching heck from the librarian
For lighting a cigarette in the American Poetry section
Screaming something about Hemingway
We went to a bar around the corner
Where he was already quite famous for his pare of dukes

But in the morning
We found ourselves at the gym
Doing the only thing we were ever good at
Him kicking someone back into shape
And me focusing on that moment of truth

[Beatboxing]

So, we flew back across the ocean looking for a prize fight
And women who wouldn't call us ugly to our face

At the immigrations counter they asked me my occupation
I said, "I'm a boxer returning from London."
When they asked me further questions of my trip
I said, "Is this going to take long?"
They said, "What was your purpose?
What was—
What was your purpose of your trip?"
I said, "Sex, drugs, and spoken word."

So, I found myself in this littler room
As they went through every inch of my belongings
As my trainer waited out with the rain and the yellow cab
Smoking, cursing this prize fighter

And at the press conference
Through the light bulbs and commotion
I said, "Win or lose, this prize fight will be poetry in motion."

And as I rose to my feet in my red gloves
Inspiring as someone who does what he loves
Me and my trainer locked heads
He put his wrists on my shoulder blades
The man who knew your deep, dark secrets
Cannot be caged birds
And at most, poetry fuckin' sucks
You gotta hit the typewriter with your fighting words

It was nice to have him in my corner
Each night as I stepped into the center of the ring to sing
And I know
It's just another...

[beatboxes]
Left
And a right
Left
And a right
Left
And a right
Every night!
Every other night
Left
Right
Left
Right
Left! Right!
Every other night!

And I was knocked out in the fifth
And the first thing I saw as I regained consciousness
Was my trainer's scarred, aged, fucking face
And I had what alcoholics call a moment of clarity
I knew with my last dying breath
I had to kill, stab the myth
That river is skin-deep
My friends, the beauty of lies
Is your precious fountain of youth

I'm a boxer who's just returned from London
And this is my moment of truth
Violins play in the distance, soft
I'm a boxer but tonight my gloves are off
I'm out in the rain trying to have a cigarette in the cold
I am just a poor boy and my story's seldom told