The Prize Fight Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: A BBCCDDEE FFGGHHII JJKKLLKKKK GGKKMM NNOOII| I am a boxer who does not inflict blows on the air but I hit hard and straight at my own body Cor ix WEYMOUTH'S Translation | A |
| - | |
| 'T'was breakfast time and outside in the street | B |
| The factory men went by with hurrying feet | B |
| And on the bridge in dim December light | C |
| The newsboys shouted of the great prize fight | C |
| Then as I dished the bacon and served out | D |
| The porridge all our youngsters gave a shout | D |
| The letter box had clicked and through the din | E |
| The Picture News was suddenly pushed in | E |
| - | |
| John showed the lads the pictures and explained | F |
| Just how the fight took place and what was gained | F |
| By that slim winner Then he looked at me | G |
| As I sat busy pouring out the tea | G |
| Your mother is a boxer rightly styled | H |
| She hits the air sometimes though and John smiled | H |
| Yet she fights on Young Jack with widened eyes | I |
| Said Dad how soon will mother get a prize | I |
| - | |
| We laughed And yet it set me thinking how | J |
| I beat the air because a neighbour's cow | J |
| Munched at our early cabbages and ate | K |
| The lettuce up and tramped my mignonette | K |
| And many a time I kicked against the pricks | L |
| Because the little dog at number six | L |
| Disturbed my rest And then how cross I got | K |
| When Jane seemed discontented with her lot | K |
| Until poor John in desperation said | K |
| He wearied of the theme and went to bed | K |
| - | |
| And how I vexed myself that day when he | G |
| Brought people unexpectedly for tea | G |
| Because the table cloth was old and stained | K |
| And not a single piece of cake remained | K |
| And how my poor head ached Because well there | M |
| It uses lots of strength to beat the air | M |
| - | |
| I am a boxer Here and now I pray | N |
| For grace to hit the self life every day | N |
| And when the old annoyance comes once more | O |
| And the old temper rises sharp and sore | O |
| I shall hit hard and straight O Tender Wise | I |
| And read approval in Thy loving eyes | I |
Fay Inchfawn
(1)
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