THE GHOST WITH THE HAMMER IN HIS HAND by Arthur Cole
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Over the years, the valleys have produced many fine boxers. In the early days they were usually from a mining background. Fighting in fairground booths, and with bare knuckles. This short poem is about one such fighter, probably one of the greatest Wales has ever produced. 'THE GHOST WITH THE HAMMER IN HIS HAND' A Quakers Yard boy, born and raised, heart of a lion, the world he'd amaze. The son of a miner, hard as teak, small of stature, a nature freak. At the age of twelve, the mine did call, together with men, the gullies, he'd crawl. After four years, the booths were his calling, bare knuckle fighting, big men falling. He then turned pro, and fought for a living, big or small, he was unforgiving. The mighty atom, the name he was dubbed, world flyweight champion, is what he'd become For sixteen years, he fought with no fear, still to this day, he has no boxing peer. Many have followed, many have tried, this legend lives on, our nation's pride. For years enduring, all punches hurled, a miner's son, he conquered the world, He wasn't a man to taunt or rile, that was the legend, peerless Jimmy Wilde. Copyright Arthur Cole 2016 (34) https://www.facebook.com/groups/1656109051306720/permalink/1659958634255095/