On a cold March night in twenty-twelve,
In Ottawa’s ring, where the echoes swell,
A man named Justin, just past forty,
Stood nervous-eyed but stance held sporty.
The crowd erupted, loud and wild,
But doubt still gripped this golden child.
For this was not just any fight—
It was his first… beneath the light.
They said, “He’s soft! He won’t survive.
He’s pampered, weak—he won’t leave alive!”
And standing there in the opposite square,
Was a man who made all others stare.
Brass Knuckles Brazil—a soldier proud,
A black-belt brute who wowed the crowd.
His fists were feared, his punches famed,
A monster in a fighter’s frame.
The commentators laughed with scorn,
When Justin, shiny, shy, was born.
They called him “Pony” with a grin,
Like he was prancing in to lose, not win.
But deep inside that polished shell,
Was fire and fight he’d trained to quell.
They didn’t know his secret grind,
The hours burned, the steely mind.
The bell then rang—round one began,
The Pony charged, a flailing man!
He swung and missed, his hits were wild,
While Brass just smirked, precise and styled.
He countered fast, he hit like doom,
He thrashed poor Justin ‘round the room.
The crowd went mad, the fight looked done,
As Brass’s fists blocked out the sun.
A mighty hook—Justin swayed,
But just before he dropped or prayed,
The bell rang out to end the round,
And Shiny Pony hit the ground… and stood.
Back to his stool, face bloody and beat,
While Brass sat smug, relaxed and neat.
Yet in that corner, pain and strife,
Justin swore he’d fight for life.
“They think I’m soft,” he told his soul,
“But I’ve got grit—and that’s my goal.”
The bell rang loud, round two was here,
And Justin rose, despite the fear.
He charged again—but this time landed,
His hits were sharp, his stance commanded!
Punch by punch, he made it clear:
“The Shiny Pony shows no fear!”
Brass staggered back—was this a trick?
He looked confused, his steps were slick.
The crowd now gasped—this was no joke,
The underdog had finally woke.
Round two was his—no doubt remained,
And Brass looked tired, bruised and pained.
Now eyes were wide, and hearts were stirred,
The doubters silent—none had words.
Round three began with roaring sound,
And Justin held his holy ground.
He smashed and struck with all his might,
And Brass Knuckles began to lose the fight.
A final jab, a bursting nose,
And blood poured fast in ruby flows.
The ref stepped in, declared the bout,
And raised the arm of Justin—shout!
He won the match! The crowd went wild,
This “Shiny Pony” wasn’t mild.
No longer just the polished son—
He’d fought, he’d bled, and damn… he’d won.
Though it was just a charity clash,
To Justin, it was more than cash.
He’d fought to change the public’s view,
To prove his strength and courage true.
And Canada took note that day—
The Pony had some grit and sway.
He rose in fame, his image strong,
No longer was he seen as wrong.
He rode that wave to reach much higher,
Climbed the polls, became a flyer.
And in the end, he took the lead—
He’d plant the nation’s future seed.
The boy they mocked, the man they knew,
The one who bled but pushed on through…
Would go from bruised and sore and muddy—
To Canada’s Prime Minister: Justin Trudeau, bloody.