Rugby's third most famous poet
Tyson There is just that moment of beauty when fist splits lip and the tired head loses control of it's eyes and they roll independent. There is sweat and blood showering the front, greedy rows, caught in the slo' mo' glittering silver spray fleeing the falling body like flies from a corpse kicked. As the Gypsy King stands atop of the ropes Wilder lies sightless, searching for oxygen and crying invisibly for the canvas to swallow him whole. Fury felled twice rose again like his beloved saviour and now waits head held high while they fasten belts around his waist and hold his battered hands aloft. There is beauty in a nineteen stone dancer who completes the ballet with a song and a smile. Vegas for the third time and who apart from a Lancashire lad would bet on that
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