Strode out to music that’s charged with grace,
Black cloth hung down to mask his face.
Shrouded in shadows he menacingly grinned,
Whipped off his towel and became the wind.
Brutality to him is simple child’s play,
The ringside choir screams, “Kaze Ni Nare!”
Master of torment, artist of inhumane,
Lay on his canvas and experience the pain.
Grown men run from his maniacal stare,
The marks of war carved into his hair.
Violence and torture fueled by cheques,
Funding his desire to crank some necks.
A legend of the mat that’s ready to shoot,
Better run away if you’re wearing a tracksuit.
Beware all rookies of the young lion reaper,
Clutch onto air, here comes the sleeper.
Hundreds of victims with hardly a survivor,
No hope remains after a gotch piledriver.
Flanked by his army loyal to the death,
He crushes his prey and starves them of breath.
You’ll never see more fear instilled in a man,
Than one that’s face-to-face with the Ichiban.
To all those who dare step into his ring,
Pay your respects, and bow down to the King.
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