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Forty one,

ancient indeed for a gladiator,

especially one who’s body had failed him in the not so distant past.

If he were to fight again he would need the skilled hands of a chirurgeon,

an indomitable will, and droughts of mandragora would not do this time

In order that he might hear the crowd once more, begrudgingly, he sought the care of a chirurgeon.

He was no ordinary gladiator,

and no ordinary chirurgeon would do to care for his wounded ankle.

No coin would be spared, no,

none but James Andrews would do.

Categories: Poetry
  1. May 23, 2010 at 6:03 am

    Aw, love it! Go Favre!!!

  2. May 23, 2010 at 2:52 pm

    Wow! A splendid poem, and I love the way you avoided all the other words – they were so awkward!

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