My Mum stood six feet

                and came out of the red-corner.

                        Steel-grey and solid

                              she pushed the seconds aside

        with an eye-smile across the ring that said;

               “You’re a lightweight.

                 a very light, lightweight.”

       Death was a cocky bastard,

              being gnarled with experience

                  and having no sense of honour.

                          His record though was impressive,

                     and his reach was enormous

                 whilst his age was…

         a closely guarded secret…

         With her three scre years and ten behind her

               Mum faced him,

       Believed in herself.

                    She jabbed and weaved

    (some say she fought dirty)

             Silver locks flashing

                       and in the first round

        she laid him on the ropes.

                 It was no real surprise

   when her lighning left finished Him…

                        He realed from the bright-light of day

            and sat grogily in his corner;

             Seconds in a flap,

              Minutes glaring nervously,

               but even on points it was Mum’s,

        and the crowd roared.

   The return-match took place

   without glamour.

                            As the faint light

                            guided the uniformed girl’s eyes

                            over the night charts

                            Death snuck up     like a press gang mugger

                            and booted her into lonely oblivion

                            and ignominous dust…

         It was a             NO CONTEST

Now me and my brother

    are out to get him,

          and we know He’s afraid

              ‘cos of what Mum done to him…

                    So He’s lying low for now.

                       but we’ll find Him some day...