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| Charles Bukowski |
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| You Canīt Make a Lion out of a Butterfly | ||||
| he was built naturally big and he was strong he was just born into it with oversize curls that fell over his forehead he even had an English accent and he was pretty if you didnīt look too close all he lacked was soul and fire heīd never been hungry heīd never been lonely heīd never been anything but big and strong with oversize curls and we worked him up the heavyweight ladder against misfits with glass chins and he was 26 and 0 when we put him against the 5th ranked contender a black butterball whoīd been to prison twice once for rape once for burglary a coke-head and our boy Bobby he looked good in the first round he had an 6 inch reach on Butterball he had youth size strength perfectly trained but Butterball came out in the 2nd and started landing shots from the outfield our boy Bobby covered up like a girl backed against the ropes hid under his arms and in the 3rd it was the same and in the 4th Butterball got to his chin and our boy Bobby fell down right off took the count and got right up at 11. none of us would talk to him in the dressing room. he sat on the edge of the table and said: "Iīm going to take up acting." Butterball had told me right after the fight: "That guy couldnīt raise half a hard-on in a high-class whorehouse." "go take your shower, Bobby," somebody in the room said. when we walked into the shower room we looked at each other, there were 3 or 4 of us. "well, shit," somebody said. and thatīs what is was. |
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