Rumble In The Jungle

Give us some poetry? Ali. Me, we..? (A record-breaker) these are the words -of Muhammad Ali Ali—baba-booyah, Ali, is he? The emperor of Horus sang back the chorus Ali—baba-booyah Ali—baba-booyah All—baba-booyah The people's champion roaring, catlike a rampant lion. With lean longlegs of lynxes the king of all the cobras? With a right leading paw his jab like a shining red ripsaw his words of combat a poetic—sting, like a bee he's buzzing like a black gnat in the ears of Forman's one-man-wall. Fury; surely, he's only another meatball. (Half-crazed: George Forman he isn't their American hero their Tarzan) 'Muhammad Ali...' Ail—baba-booyah, Ali The emperor of Horus they all sang back in chorus. Ali—baba-booyah Ali—baba-booyah Ali—baba-booyah Hellfire sharpen up this stirring beast's anger who isn't yet a baptized priest? This unleashes the bears raging blahs! ! ! But in a taciturn of natural, law a trudging elephant goes sleeping. Wearily, on the ropes, he's waiting tobacco chewing the brawlers heart weathering his boulders. And his own leaf shedding soul Ali and his admirer's console Muhammad Ali Ali—baba-booyah, Ali The emperor of Horus comes back the chorus Ali—baba-booyah Ali—baba-booyah Ali—baba-booyah Meanwhile, me, we..? Ali, tenderly, inward sobs Me, we..? Me, we..? For 3-whole rounds, he bobs weaves until his inward sobs. Awaken his ancestors. Then does he begin, surely to hear? A charlatan's heartbeat drum... With no more tantrums to come. He Ali awakens his African elephant. Wounded and yet more grievant it's then, this road turnpikes.' And Africa's chosen black son Ali, the preordained cobra strikes at Forman, the watermelon gatherer bewildered, headlong-guilty of this his own perjure.