The Loser
By Charles Bukowski
and the next I remembered I'm on a table,
everybody's gone; the head of bravery
under light, scowling, flailing me down...
and then some toad stood there, smoking a cigar;
"Kid you're no fighter," he told me,
and I got up and knocked him over a chair;
it was like a scene in a movie, and
he stayed there on his big rump and said
over and over: "Jesus, Jesus, whatsamatta wit
you?" and I got up and dressed,
the tape still on my hands, and when I got home
I tore the tape off my hands and
wrote my first poem,
and I've been fighting
ever since.
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