Le Poem De La Sweat
I sit here at my keyboard fair,
Sweat beads streaking through my hair,
I just got home from working out at the gym,
In a very vain effort to get fit and trim.
I wonder why it has to be this way,
Joints a-hurtin’ and old legs that sway,
I’m breathing so hard, it’s like a monsoon,
I’m sure I could inflate a hot air balloon.
As I worked out, I looked all around,
Amazed at the different type people I found,
I cussed the skinny people who don’t break a sweat,
The more they eat, the thinner they get.
It doesn’t seem right, yet what can I do,
They’re still real skinny, but my stomach’s all goo.
And there’s a big guy, who’s puffing like me,
His sweatpants are too small, his gut I can see,
When he bends over to pick up some weights,
I think of full moons, the association I hate.
To my right is a lady, she works hard and tries,
No weight in her chest, but lots in her thighs,
She’s standing there eyeing the sit-up bench,
If she lays down on it, we may need a wench.
Right straight ahead is a real foxy mama,
Her tan lines remind me of the Bahamas,
Her work-out outfits couldn’t be more tiny,
If she makes a quick move, I might glimpse her heiny.
As for me, I’m on a Stairmaster,
A pretty good recipe for an impending disaster,
My legs are feeling like concrete poles,
If my brain were x-rayed, it’d be full of holes.
One minute goes by, then two, then three,
The water gods are all calling out to me,
My chest feels tight, my eyes feel glazed,
If I don’t throw up, I’ll be mega amazed.
Finally, I finish, and I can go home,
And sit my butt down, to finish this poem,
Amy, my dear, I enjoyed this plenty,
Now break out your purse and slip me that twenty.
