In his corner, boots and trunks, Trying to look brave, Eyeing me both down and up Wondering if I'll cave To his demeaning, bullying gaze His pecs and biceps pump Hoping that his menacing stare Will cause my throat to lump. But I, though leaner, can deceive, Good tactics I will use, My lithe and supple, agile form Will aid, to him abuse. With 'pins' and 'clothesline', 'headbutt', 'kick', And 'diving elbow drop', Weakened by my high 'back kick' With final 'backhand chop'. He tries his best to rally round To submit, he'll not yield, The ref, though, sees his flailing arms Decides, he must concede. But undeterred and utt'ring threats A rematch he insists He leaves the ring, frustrated mood While pumping iron fists.
Poetry I have composed throughout the years. Some specifically for people, others for printing in anthologies