Classic Poem

Not on your life, Bob; not on your life! The Muse salutes you!
And if there still be virtue left in catgut,
In brass or wood, she'll sound a stave that's worthy
The squarest, hardest hitting slugger that ever pawed
the sawdust!
The man with the wallop! '
All in!'
Not on your life!
Your place is with the veteran heroes, with the elder
statesmen.
Another may wear your laurels, but cannot blur your
record!
Hero of twenty score hard-fought battles,
An in-fighter who gave and took with a joyous ferocity!
Who fought manfully and as manfully lost!
Move up there, you Immortals!
Make room for a gladiator—not for a grafter!
Here is a tall fellow of his hands—whose hands are
clean!
A rough-jointed, red-headed, slant-browed troglodyte!
Such a one as might have wielded the cestus
Before applauding Rome!
Make room, I say!
While we who have roared and catcalled by the ringside,
Whooped, yelled, howled, and trampled on our hats
As he grinned back at us in his hour of triumph—
A freckled, fierce, loose lipped satyr—
Take oft' our hats to add state to his exit. '
All in!'
Not on your life, Bob!
You have fought your last battle,
But it was the last of many,
And though lost, was not without glory.
Step up to your place with the Immortals
And live long to awe the youngsters
With the tales of your prowess.