You want to go,
you want to sling,
you letters in my face?
My style is good,
my spit is quick,
can you keep up the pace?
Veterans of this ring my friend,
know to step aside.
When the saint begins to roll his pen,
eyes burst open wide.
The paper fears,
the pen inks tears,
writers fill with sorrow.
Its been that way for many years,
it will be that way tomorrow.
You may not know just who I am,
no one must have told you.
Your standing in the presence of,
the poet Saint Cynosure.
saint cynosure ( Ken Bennight )
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pugilist-poet/
