poems 2 rock your soul by Randy Savage

snap into a
slim jim,
baby
boxes of that shit,
gratis
a champion in tights
the torso
a billboard
full of battle scars

strong, epically
strong
with a large
and tired
heart

basement full of dried
sausages
perks of the job,
i used to say
standing there
in half-darkness
half-laughing
looking down
at the

faded welterweight
belts

talking with
the rasp of a
voice that
mingled so well
with the
baritone stylings of
mean gene
okerlund
back in the day
and held within
its echoes
so much
savage
tenderness