Diaz vs GSP in Poetic Form


"No Joy in Montreal"

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the one called “Rush” that day;
He faced a Gracie Fighter unimpressed with lay-and-pray.
And then in pre-fight banter Georges read from scripted line,
And then with open disdain, Diaz muttered, “209”.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the Mandalay, it rattled in the dell.
It knocked upon the walls and recoiled the metal stage,
For Georges, mighty Georges, was advancing to the cage

There was ease in Georges’ manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Georges’ bearing and a smile on Georges’ face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Georges on the mat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as his corner rubbed his chest;
Five thousand tongues applauded when they announced him as, “the best”.
Even though this new opponent’s middle fingers stood there flipped,
Defiance gleamed in Georges’ eye, a sneer curled Georges’ lip.

And now Nick’s leather-covered fist came hurtling through the air;
And Georges stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Upon the sturdy wrestler, the fist unheeded sped-
“That poked my eye,” said Georges. The ref stopped it ’cause “he bled”.

From the benches packed with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill him! Kill the referee!” shouted someone on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Georges raised his hand

With a smile of Christian charity great Georges’ visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the fight go on.
He signaled to his opponent, but once again he failed to block,
Georges looked bewildered as the ref said, “Get the doc.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Georges and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Georges wouldn’t let that fist land once again.

The sneer is gone from Georges’ lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He wipes with renewed fervor, the Vaseline on his face.
And now Diaz lifts up his fists, and now he lets them go,
And now compustrike is shattered by the volume of his blows.

Oh, somewhere in the Northern land the sun is shining bright;
Celine Dion sings gaily, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men play hockey, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Montreal– mighty Georges was knocked out.


Diaz nuthuggers

Get ready for a Rush job

Grind a decision.