The Battle is Done With
by Ewan MacColl
from The Fight Game

The battle is done with, the fighters departed,
Leaving the litter and spoils of the crowd --
The empty beer bottles, the torn silver paper,
The spent cigarette smoke that hangs like a shroud.

The champions have gone and the black squad takes over,
The ring is dismantled, the ropes lose the strain,
The cleaners are sponging the blood off the canvas,
The blood of the heroes is swilled down the drain.

The bars are deserted, the dressing rooms empty,
Stale with the smell of a thousand defeats.
The pain and the glory are already fading.
What's left is the thrill when you count the receipts.