It’s deep into the final round, The crowd is madly ranting.
But I can hardly hear the sound Over my heavy panting.

The champ has got me on the ropes. He’s brutally pelting me.
He aims to stamp out all my hopes Of any proud victory.



I’m blacking out. My sight is blurred, My face profusely bleeding.
I cannot hear my coach’s words My senses, they are fleeting.

A mighty blow. I hit the floor, To the crowd’s brutish delight.
They think I don’t have any more In me to get up and fight.



They think the match is all over, But I know without a doubt,
He can knock me down but he can’t Knock me out!

The stout ref calls out the numbers. He’s the herald of defeat
Aroused from unconscious slumber, I can hear the rhythmic beat.



“One! Two!” He amusedly chides. “Three! Four! Five! Six!” He now yells.
“Seven!” With passion as my guide, I get up before the bell.

The champ laughs to see my struggles. He thinks he has won the bout.
He can knock me down, but he can’t Knock me out!



The champ furiously unloads His jabs upon my slight build
But each one only serves a goad, My heart with fortitude filled.

I give back a few of my own To invalidate a rout.
He can knock me down, but he can’t Knock me out!



A flying hook meets the champ’s jaw, And he howls like a hound.
And then, to my splendour and awe I see ‘tis him on the ground!

Amazed, I listen to the call Of the referee so stout.
I have knocked him down, and I’ve now Knocked him out!