Part of Violent People’s FUNKIN’ FALL series: View the full index.

I met a traveler who had wrestled across the lands,
Who said: Two men stood in a Chicago ring,
One carried dreams of gold within his hands,
The other carried nothing, not a thing.

One, Two

The first had conquered kingdoms in his day,
Had worn the crown and made the mighty fall,
Had come to take McMahon’s empire away,
And prove himself the greatest of them all.

Three, Four

The first spoke of Piper, Hogan, Orndorff too,
Of fifty thousand dollars yet to claim,
Of all the terrible things that he would do,
Of bounties, belts, and everlasting fame.

Five, Six

And on his face, a sneer of cold command,
A Funk who’d brought the mighty to their knees,
Who saw the wrestling world within his hand,
And Moondog Spot as someone he could beat with ease.

Seven, Eight

But then his trick went wrong outside the ropes;
Terry scrambled, but the count rolled on and on.
With every number died Funk’s hopes,
The belt, the fortune, and the throne, all gone.

Nine, Ten

Upon the canvas stood victorious Spot,
While Terry Funk remained outside the ring.
And all around, the empty dreams of Funk
Lay scattered like the ruins of a king.

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.

Twenty-seven seconds.

Moondog Spot.

Nothing beside remains.

More FUNKIN’ FALL: See every year in the series