The Prize Fighter

In his hay day
He could stand up
To any man
In the ring,
Take what they had
To offer,
And dish it out
With reckless abandon.
He grew older
And was not
Nearly as fast
On his feet
Or in his head
As he once was.
The hard life he lived
And the blows
He had taken
Finally took their toll.
He still had
The will to fight,
But his body
Refused to perform,
And he was forced
To throw in the towel.
He had made
Some pretty good money
Once upon a time,
But it had flowed
Through his fingers
Like water,
And he had nothing left
To show for his toil.
All the years of practice
And all the prizes won
Came to naught.
Nobody seemed to want
A fighter who was spent,
So he lived in obscurity
Until the day he died,
And very few even
Remember his name.