Reckless abandon marching through the red mist.
An audacious torrent of destruction fuelled by a fist.
Work like a dog all day until I get paid,
Moving from town to town plying my brutal trade.
Foreign object in hand, and a wild mane of black,
Scars decorate my forehead, the marks of my craft.
Not a babyface, or a heel, just a legend of hardcore.
I am Bruiser, I am Brody, purveyor of guts and gore.
This isn’t fake, this isn’t kayfabe, this is a fight.
Boos rain down on me as blood glistens in the spotlight.
We kick, we claw, we scratch, and we bite,
Colours flood from my face all through the night.
What I do is an art, performed on a canvas,
Blood is the paint, and my face is the palette.
When the blade hits the skin, the crowd begins to sing.
Grown men gasp, cries of children start to ring.
One night in Puerto Rico, the boys all flooded backstage.
A knife was suddenly revealed, and thrust into my ribcage.
Violent floods of crimson cascaded down my skin,
My bloody carcass collapsed as the world began to spin.
Paramedics arrived, yet my body they could not shift,
Six-foot eight, three hundred pounds, too heavy for them to lift.
I’m not a cartoon character, simply a man of blood and flesh,
A trembling frame lying on a stretcher with wounds still fresh.
I was reduced to a cadaver with a legacy of brutality.
I was Bruiser, I was Brody, a dying mass of humanity.
My last words were spoken as the sky lost its blue,
“Tell my little son I love him, and tell my wife I love her too.” –
The last words of Bruiser Brody
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