"Prize Fighter."
I love horses because they will outrun the fastest man.
They are majestic, as stately as a Saturday woman
before a party.
Horses smell like what it means to be fast.
Sweat and gravel kicked up on early morning runs.
The in and out of breath can growl
like gravel in tired lungs.
I groomed and raced horses from Texas to Philadelphia
until one broke my leg bone with a back kick.
Thanks to that break, I can't ride anymore.
And even if I could, we got these automobiles now.
[CAR SOUNDS] And they can carry us a mile a minute.
[LAUGHTER]
There he is.
[LAUGHTER]
I'm buying the fastest one of these things
I can find once I get my money together.
I'm like an automobile in the ring.
My fists work like cranked-up engines.
I've got the kind of elasticity other fighters
dream about when I put them to sleep on the canvas.
When I clinch a man, it's like being swaddled in forgiveness.
When I hook a man, it's like being hit by frustration.
I can't tell if these horses are happy or confounded
by this new means of locomotion, but I can say with certainty,
my prizefighting cohorts are decidedly
dissatisfied by my presence.
That's a direct quote-- "decidedly
dissatisfied by my presence."