If I'm down,
and not down for the count;
If I'm on the ground,
and come to my weak
knocking knees,
then unsteadily to my feet
don't count me out
or disqualify me
just yet.

If life,
or circumstance,
or the Devil himself
should knock me to the canvas,
to where my body is broken
and my face is bruised
and my lip is split and bloody,
even so
don't count me down
if I so much as get up
on my two wobbly legs.

Let him beat me
let him earn it
let my body nor my mind betray me,
let him reap the spoils of victory
if he can knock me out.
If he can finally finish me
after every punch to my gut,
then let him brag
to all who'll listen
that he alone brought me down.

But until that day
until that day
until that day
I'll struggle and hurt
and wipe the sweat and blood
out of my stinging eyes,
swing where I can,
block when I can
and get to my feet again,
however shaky they might be.