O Gomi! My Gomi! Your fearful career is done; sad to tell:
You had your run.
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning,
To see the Fireball Kid, once more burning.
But on the mat Gomi lies, after another loss at the hands of a fellow man.
Fallen cold and dead, prospects of you fighting once more fill me with dread.
O Gomi! My Gomi! rise up and hear the final ring bell;
Whence you were great – the king of all your size – now you are a man who knows not he fell.
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
It is time, My Gomi, to admit that only your losing provides us with thrills.
My Gomi does not answer the bell, his lips are bloodied, his eyes still,
He who owned PRIDE has no more PRIDE left in his till.
Your career does not feel warm, it has no pulse nor will,
You stand not on a mountain but lie at the bottom of The Hill.
Your career is anchor’d safe and sound,
your voyage closed and done.
You won your titles, ruled big shows;
Is time; return to the Land of the Rising Sun.
But I with mournful tread,
Your glory only in my head.
I walk the deck where my Gomi’s past lies,
Remembering today through yesterday’s eyes.
O Gomi! My Gomi! Fallen cold and dead.