Posted by Admin on Monday, 3rd March 2008, 00:00

Ma’s knitting has been dropped awhile,
young Junior leaves the cat in peace,
and Pa, bemused, with beery smile
awakes from where he takes his ease.
They watch from set-cum-ringside seat,
a primitive and pep-filled scene,
for ‘grappling’ fans a weekend treat,
their eyes unmoving, glued to screen.
Within the ring two hairy men
are warming to the job in hand;
a commentator gives the ‘gen’,
of holds and counters – how they land.
At once the three are quite engrossed,
the action satisfies their hope,
there’s mayhem at a corner post,
and ‘Ref’ entangled in the ropes.
In ‘rage’ the wrestlers throw and butt,
or scrub the canvas with a face,
one leaves the ring, and hits his nut,
the front row helps him to his place.
A flying drop-kick sends him back,
he votes to stay outside and lose;
his victor plans renewed attack,
the hall resounds with sporting boos.
Then adverts – Junior asks for ‘out’,
and Ma, while switching off the set,
regrets there is no further bout:
“Of course, but don’t play rough, my pet.”

T. C. Hudson
© T. C. Hudson.

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