The Challenger
By Fistman



She sits in silence, her back to the wall,
A vixen anguished, dreams of yesterday.
 A ball of fury, her fists of rage,
She struck him often, she struck and struck.
The crowd was roaring, they left their seats,
There voices calling, there eyes enlarged.
The ring was vibrant, the figures hunched,
The battle even, the fists unleashed.
The young boy tested, his gut afraid,
He stood across from her, his gloves were up.
His nose was bleeding, his face was cut,
He punched with strength, he mustered it.
His forehead sweating, his heart was racing.
The crowd against him, he took a blow,
The girl had floored him, she knocked him down.
She bounced and looked down, what a site,
It was the first, the first mixed fight.
The ref astonished, he begun the count,
All manhood threatened, and on the apron.
The boy got up, a fighter true,
This boy was good, he was 10 and 2.
He had been told, this would be fun,
No girl could beat him, he was a man.
The girl remembers, and slips a smile,
She'd felt that power, she had him now.
She slapped her gloves, she steeled her nerves,
Her hair was up, her teeth were covered.
Her nails were short, he fists were taped,
This girl was ready, to knock him out.
The fans were cheering, in disbelief,
A joke turned serious, she then approached.
She took a punch, it had to sting,
The girl still coming, her target locked.
She ripped his head off, with a punch,
She beat him good, she beat him fair.
The count reached ten, the boy still down,
The man was beaten, the girl had won.
She let her hair down, she flashed a smile,
She was the first, to cross this line.
Her hand was raised, her muscles flexed,
The world was stunned, who will be next?

by FistMan