Poetry Bare Knuckle Fighting in the Rain

Autumn comes; longer nights are here,
British thoughts turn to sports again.
Tennis and strawberries gone ‘til next year,
Bowling replaced by footie and beer,
And bare knuckle fighting in the rain.

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Set the teeth and stretch the nostrils wide.
It’s all going down in your neighbourhood,
So don’t take the piss - until you’ve tried,
Bare knuckle fighting in the rain.

Some come alone; some bring the whole clan.
Some couples come on a date.
Some come by boat, or bowtop caravan.
Some arrive early, but no bugger’s late,
To bare knuckle fighting in the rain.

Jon knows Sue, who knows a guy,
Who’ll tell you where it’s at, for a Guinness.
It’s not quite legal, he says, looking sly,
Though the urge to punch is within us.
Hence - bare knuckle fighting in the rain.

It’s the state we’re in; it’s a state of mind,
It’s the state of play; it’s moral decay,
It’s a pressure valve, it’s an old pastime.
Some come to bet. Some just to unwind.
At bare knuckle fighting in the rain.