By Adam Lord

Hey, yo. I’m in the midst of exams, which means I don’t have the time to write the epic that is YLF for a while (yes, contrary to popular belief, if does take a while to do!). Despite this set back, I have another offering that takes probably more thought but less time. Few of you will know, a hobby of mine outside wrestling is writing poetry. This piece will be the first attempt to fuse these two passions. I rarely write narrative poems, let alone wrestling narrative poems (not traditionally rick pickings) so this is an experiment. As with any experiment, it could suck. Thus, I need feedback on anything about it (artistic or otherwise), and of course, if you would like to see more rasslin’ poems from me in the future. I might be ripping off KJP’s gimmick, but there is a Hamlet reference somewhere. I did enjoy doing this, and have several other ideas I could make reality in the weeks ahead. For the few fixamaniacs lurking at the back of the class, giving the poetry your vote of confidence will not mean the end of YLF. I love those little guys and their wizardry too much to do that. This is enough blurb from me, I hope you enjoy the poem.

Promised Land

In the Hart Dungeon, two men were stretched and trained

To be ring hyperions, not sloppy satyrs. Sids and Nashes

Of the world they were not to be, rather paragons of workrate

Dragging millionaire slugs to multiple stars, taking crashes

Outside, power moves from the stars protected as killers,

And indeed they died routed night after night after night,

Pinned by behemoths. Worse to come was their being penned

In, to spin on hamster wheels, feuding among themselves. Height

And size was not theirs, and Uncle Eric had no ideas.

Star making was not his forte, any wise man might say.

WCWorld had no cultivation, merely relying on imports,

Counting on the greed of Vince’s products to save the day.

This could not their enthusiasm dull or destroy, they

Forged excitement from offcuts. Jericho basked in the jeers

From conspiracy theories and moves numbering 1004.

Benoit versus Booker’s feud will be remembered for years.

“Greenberg” was summoned, but never appeared.

Ralphus: an expression of Jericho’s dystopian vision

Late Professor Boris was even fair game for the prick,

He pulled Dean Malenko from his charismaless prison.

Benoit flirted more with glory. Flashing the fingers

Of the Horsemen’s salute, standing for tradition.

But he was only a henchman, never the star, stood suited,

Beside, as Flair’s rhetoric was crowd heat nuclear fission.

As Hogan’s and Bisch’s histrionics wore threadbare thin,

As Slimy Syxx, Alcho Hall and Big Lazy continued to win,

Viewers stayed for that seen by geezers as cardinal sins,

Crisp, athletic, cultured work leading to dramatic pins.

When looking back at the Turner Golden Age, what

Do you consider the triumphs? The millionth nWo

Beatdown, hulking up or Goldberg lying down for Nash?

I’d guess, unless you’re a born nostalgist, you’d say no.

The lasting attractive taste of Teddy’s pie was that

Invisible as worthwhile to Eric’s undiscerning eye.

Little guys were a bone thrown to the smarks and enthusiasts

While hackneyed announcers hyped the main. But why?

“Vanilla midgets will never draw a dime” they chimed.

What did they expect? They weren’t given chances to shine

By vainglorious spurious “draws” eager to draw the line

Where glass would be laid. Showing them up was a crime.

Jericho was loosed as an unjustifiable expense,

Hilarious as millions were wasted on a hum-vee

And DJs who Ran gleefully straight to the bank.

He left, vowing no more an oppressed job boy to be.

Benoit metamorphosed to a Revolutionary,

No longer led by Flair, but a pudgy big mouth.

But Russo had some exciting plans, ending

With the gold. Neither would stay long down South.

Benoit was studly, alas Kevin was fugly.

Nancy picked the hunk over an old man who stunk.

Kev would get his own back with hasty demotion,

Benoit called Titan and evaded that old lunk.

Jericho began “mired in the midcard” as a fat

Whining shill said, but we got flashes of brilliance:

Doctored photos; battles with his old friend Benoit.

His stick work was simultaneously funny and bilious.

“Shut the Hell up!” allowed the crowd to sing along,

Not a bad tactic for getting over, just ask the Rock.

Bisch must have sat at home and cried in his beer.

Less goofy, but the same character WCW had in stock.

Benoit took a radically different route:

He learnt to orate and yelled “prove me wrong”.

But wrestling like a mofo got him over hugely

Over, plus putting medals next to his shlong.

Mutual respect brought the warriors together, after

their series had raised the WWF quality bar.

They survived Tag Turmoil, earned Trip and SC,

And on RAW they chose to rock the khasbah.

Vince was only marking time with Undy and Kane,

We’ll become immune if every show is bitchin’.

Benoit and Jericho are big stars, smarks should rejoice, but

Remember this elevation before your next bout of snitching.