The demands have been great (okay, one person) about what exactly happened to Welterweight Champion George St Pierre this weekend.

There are certain things a man can count on in his life.

The Sun rising in the East (or West, as if anyone keeps track), buy low – sell high, masturbation, coming home rich from Vegas, and Georges St Pierre (GSP) winning.

And he doesn’t just win, he wins in style. He submits, he boxes, he plants shins in people’s heads, he fights rhinos, and he has developed cold fusion.

Which made Saturday night all the worse. Not only do we have to sit through four crap fights (okay, the two lightweight nobodies was pretty entertaining — they were cute, like a couple of toddlers slap-fighting). Then it’s time for St Pierre versus Guy-From-The-Street. Honestly, Guy-from-street was a 9 to 1 UNDERDOG.

I can’t describe the carnage that ensued. I just can’t. Even after four days, the emotions are too raw, too bloodied to be able to talk about it.

But Saturday night did not end well.

I have written the following poem to describe the emotions of that fateful night:

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville London
    mighty Casey GSP has struck out.