Thursday, June 17, 2010

Game Dog Poetry...

Here are some poems I found related to the game-bred American Pit Bull Terrier. I post them for historical purposes ONLY, and to demonstrate the heart and pride of our great breed. I am in no way affiliated with the sport of dog fighting. It is illegal, you know. Bad stuff. But anyway, I enjoyed these and found them interesting.

“The Blood Of A Champion”

He may be a large dog - may be small,
He will fight one dog or fight them all.
He will give you all he has to give,
It's the only way he wants to live.

He has earned the respect of poor men en kings,
He has fought in the open, in pits and in rings.
He has fought the wolverine, the bull and the bear,
For his own life he has not a care.

He will not cower, he will not cry,
For to be called "Cur" he would rather die.
A cur and a fighter are not the same,
A cur is a quitter, but a fighter is game.

We don't force him to fight, he can quit any time,
But it's not a bulldog that stands the line.
When men speak of bulldogs, the words that fit,
Are those like courage, stamina and grit.

In the pit he is powerful, fierce en wild,
But at home, he will sleep with the smallest child.
He knows not the meaning of a word called quit,
He likes on a chain, but longs for the pit.

The blood of the champion flows in his veins,
He can stand the heat, he can stand the pain.
If it comes to the scratch, he'll make the run,
When he hears his master cry "Aww, son!"

“Dead Game Creed”

Give me victory or give me death
I will make history and gain your respect
Take my lesson or take my life
Triumph is blemished in the absence of strife
I have great pride, For I am unequaled
Win, lose or tie, There won't be a sequel
It's unexplainable and seldom viable
But I am dead game, And that's undeniable

"The Bully"

There once lived an overgrown kid near our lot,
Who owned a large mongrel, whose name I´ve forgot.
The boy was a bully, his dog was the same,
And they both used their size to play a mean game.

All the kids in the neighbourhood feared this tough nut,
As the house-dogs for blocks, feared his oversized mutt.
Toy poodles or collies or terrier small,
Made no difference, the big cur could handle them all.

The pair soon were famous, their game they played well,
For they had every dog near the tracks cut to hell.
One day a new family took the house down the street,
They owned a trim brindle dog, with white blaze and white feet.

His eyes were quite small, his muzzle looked strong,
His low carried tail was fine, pointed, not long.
He carried him self with a confident air,
On the street he´d pas dogs as if they weren´t there.

A few telltale scars on his shoulders and head,
Told a mute story, better than if it was read.
Fifty pounds of spring steel, he was quick as a cat,
And he´d fight if he had to, at a drop of a hat.

Then one day in Spring Down, by the kids hut,
The big bully came, and behind him his mutt.
The two dogs stood rigid, and to my surprise,
The yellow dog was twice the brindle dogs size.

The big dog moved in, but his jaws snapped on air,
The thing he had lunged at, well it just wasn´t there.
A clever sidestep had avoided his jump,
Something clamped on his throat, he went down with a thump.

He tried to break loose, he was fighting in fear,
His head it was pounding, couldn´t see, couldn´t hear,
His wind was cut off, he was beaten through and through,
And the big kid, astounded, felt he´d had enough too.

They got "Brindle" off, "Yellow" got to his feet,
And with tail between legs, weakly went down the street.
Now I wonder if anyone reading this screed,
Could tell me just what was the brindle dogs breed?

“Dead Game”
By Andrew Vachss

I'm no good until I get hit the first time.
Tony says I'm a slow starter.
But once I get going, nothing can stop me.
I never quit. Never.
I looked across the ring. I'm fighting a black guy tonight. Bosco, I think his name is.
It doesn't matter what his name is.
This is the first time I saw him. They don't let me face the other guy at the weigh-ins anymore. Sometimes, I go after them right there. I have to save it for the fight.
He's a little bigger than me, but he's still inside the weight limit.
He's younger than me, too.
But I've been around a lot longer. You can see it on my face. And all over my body. Experience counts for a lot in these fights. You can't tell if a fighter's any good until he gets nailed the first time, that's what Tony says. Then you find out about his heart.
They say it's in my blood, fighting.
But I really only do it for Tony.
I love him.
He's been with me since I was real little. He gives me everything.
I train the old way. Special food. No sex before a fight.
They say that's why we started fighting. For sex. To have our pick of the bitches.
But I could have sex even if I didn't fight. I fight for Tony.
I work out all the time. Tony even built a special treadmill for me, to build up my endurance.
If you get tired in these fights, you lose.
I never get tired.
I watched the black guy across from me, waiting for the signal to start. I watched his eyes. He wasn't afraid.
They never are.
Down here, the purse is nothing . . . all the money comes from betting.
Tony always bets on me.
I'd never let him down.
I'd die first.
I'm not afraid of dying. It's just sleep. And you don't wake up.
I faced the black guy. Tony rubbed the back of my neck, getting it loose.
The crowd screamed.
We bumped once and the black guy came at me.
He was quicker than me. I took his first shot right in the chest. The fire exploded in me and I tried to tear his head off.
He went down, but he got right back up.
The referee separated us a couple of times when we locked together, but they never stop these fights.
It was a long time before I took him out.
Tony carried me out of the ring.
I couldn't see Tony, my eyes were torn.
The other guy hurt me real deep.
I was going to sleep.
I heard Tony crying.
I felt his hand on my head.
Patting my bloody fur for the last time.


Today in the pit i did meet my match,
but my legs are broken and i can't make the scratch.
Please pick me up now so i can fight another day,
but money and pride has got in the way.

You know I can't win as I let out a battle cry,
looks like this pit is where I will die.
Look into my eyes did I not give my best?
But you knew that allready when you did the game test.
This is for all the game pitbulls that never gave up,
your masters betrayed you for fear of losing a buck.

Farewell to the Game
From Old Smuggler

I have grown old
In the game of life
I will retire to the kennel
For I have fought my last fight.
But I have fought from Canada
To the Mexico line
And no dog has ever
Heard me whine.
When the fight was against me
It can never be said
That Smuggler backed off
And hung his head.
Yes, I am proud of my record,
I am proud of my name
And those who have known me
Will say I was game.
But now I am old
I am feeble and grey
My fighting days are over
I have changed my way.
I will take a long rest
That I so badly need,
And in the comforts of the kennel
I will sow my seed.
So my son's may carry on
The name which I bear
For no dog can say
But what I fought fair.
But I've fought my last fight
I have hard my last gong.
I've done some good,
I've done some wrong.
So now I bid you
A kind goodnight
From you old friend Smuggler,
The Bull that would fight.

Caldwell, Kansas

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