Jun Fan, Little Dragon with fists of fury one inch punch power, stop-hit theory Hong Kong to Hollywood, he rewrote the script K.O’d racism, bobbed, weaved, and slipped the naysayers, the critics, all the gatekeepers, wrote himself a cheque for a million dollars. self-belief unshakable, knew ‘no way as way’, a warrior philosopher, ain’t easy to convey the lives Bruce ignited as he blazed his own trail, Coburn?, McQueen? - left his mark on them like braille. Inosanto, Kareem, Chuck Norris for God’s sake, Jackie Chan? yeah him too - they ALL followed in his wake. He mourned the fluid man, crammed and distorted by the classical mess and forgive me if this sounds morbid but our world could do with a few less carbon copies, fewer sheeple, fewer echo-chamber zombies. cos in this Game of Death, there ain’t no do overs Han island’s bin expanding and he’s got plenty of soldiers. Bruce didn’t take on Bolo solo, Roper had his back, so we need to stand together to parry the attack, We’ve gotta stand our ground against the big boss Big Pharma, Big Brother, cos they don’t give a toss about you, me and the people that we love, we gotta punch above our weight, 16 ounce gloves. Bruce Lee, Little Dragon, finger pointing to the moon Heavenly glory, taken far too soon, So empty your mind, be formless, shapeless hack away the inessentials, freedom, weightless, ‘adapt what is useful, reject what is useless’ Bruce spitting truth like a 60s Confucius, A bridge between cultures, before his time, immortalised in film, in print, in rhyme. The Little Dragon passed the baton, it’s time to step up, Empty your cup, don’t let your blade rust. The pagoda’s gettin closer, serious as sarcoma, this ain’t no exhibition and it aint over til it’s over.
