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My gym coach is a shorty,
A typical lebanese weightlifter and boxer,
Aged somewhere around forty,
Who still ignores the second meaning of 'boxer'.
He exersizes from sunrise till dawn
Neve getting tired, never giving up,
Nostalgic about a glory that's gone
Glory of a boxer who never won a cup.
He had no family, no parents, no wife,
Nothing but his red gloves an beloved rim
So he thought he'd no longer waste his life
And decided to open this small gym.
Now, he's admired by the young boys
Who come ever day to see him train
With his 100Kg weights, his 'small toys'
As he says to whoever thinks he's insane.
Sometimes, while running, I hear a 'boum'
I know it's him, opening gently the door,
He walks like a king in the jogging room
With his feet barely touching the floor.
Then he blows his muscles in my face
Telling me this is how I should look like,
And if I dare to say 'it's a high pace'
He stands offensively, ready to strike.
But still, I think he is hilarious
With his mannors and XXL muscle size
And I love to make him furious
By telling him: 'You should still exercize! '
Rita El Khoury
| Submitted Date |
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Tuesday, September 19, 2006 |
| Submitted Date |
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Friday, September 17, 2010 |
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Poets
