My Father and I and Billy Two Rivers (poème de Paul Muldoon)

Our favoured wrestler, the Mohawk Indian.

We would sit in the local barber shop-
'Could he not afford a decent haircut?'-
to watch him suffer the slings and arrows
of a giant Negro who fought dirty.

The Negro's breath-taking crotch-hold and slam
left all of us out for a count of ten.

The barber knew the whole thing was a sham.

Next week would see Billy back on his feet
for one of his withering Tomahawk Chops
to a Britisher's craw,


                            dusting him out
of the ring and into the wide-mouthed crowd
like a bal of tea at the Boston Tea Party.

(c) Paul Muldoon, Quoof, 1983