Left hook, right hook, an uppercut,
A jab to start round nine;
Boris Budkeyev’s kicking butt -
Alas, that butt is mine.

I’m hoping I survive this round,
I’m praying for the bell.
Another jab, I’m on the ground,
And I’m not feeling well.

Budkeyev was thinking, while punching my nose,
That life is as pretty and sweet as a rose.1

"Four, five, six, seven..." goes the count,
I stagger to my feet;
My fans don’t think I can surmount
His lead, and fear defeat;

I’m not conserving strength, by plan,
For later in the fight -
I just can’t hit my fellow man,
I just don’t think it’s right.

Budkeyev was thinking, while stomping my toes,
That life is as pretty and sweet as a rose.

The fans have filled the air with boos,
I’m letting down their hopes.
Budkeyev’s sure he cannot lose,
And I am on the ropes.

He’s a Siberian, I bet,
They’re really hard to shake.
I asked him, "Aren’t you tired yet?
Sit down and take a break!"

But he would not listen, for he’s one of those
Who think life’s as pretty and sweet as a rose.

He keeps on landing jabs and hooks,
He’s prancing all around;
I bob and weave, but now it looks
Like someone’s going down.

He’s reached complete exhaustion, and
Collapses with a sigh;
The referee lifts up my hand,
Which hadn’t hurt a fly.

He thought, as he lay there, that life’s like a rose...
For some, like a rose - and for some, it just blows.