by Philip Kitcher

Come, celebrate with UFC
dominant masculinity.
Hear, in the crunch of bone on bone,
the triumph of testosterone.
Join hoarse male voices, as they strain
to urge displays of greater pain.
Pummel the feeble and pathetic
who contradict our true aesthetic.

Why, you might wonder, does our King
maintain his place outside the ring?
Surely the leader of our age
should be a star within the cage?
Do those old bone spurs still prevent
his proper part in this event?
This spectacle so titillates,
he sits … and sits … and salivates …

The true elite, we men of brawn
don’t fuss about a patch of lawn:
the rucked-up, bloodied mud should stay,
reminder of a great man’s day.