Thinking about working out today? These incredible weightlifting poems will get you fired up and ready to push yourself to the limit!
How strong they are, those Beefers
Who hang out in the darkest corner of the Gym
And lift the weights high up toward Heaven
And scream with pain and rage while their muscles grow larger
Than any muscles should!
It is said in hushed whispers
That when the Beefers thrust their weights skyward,
At the apex of their ascent
The lips of God stretch down
And kiss their barbells
Before the fall.
I place my hand upon the iron bar,
He is my cold master, whom I live to serve
And who rewards my loyalty with Size.
I am properly hydrated and poised to lift these weights.
I will do lat curls and work my core to achieve
The well-defined abs that women go wild for.
The Great War swallowed a generation.
Their screams were blanketed in a lethal hail of shells.
I am here among the ruins of the war-scarred Earth
Dutifully performing reps.
I’m benching 250 now,
Which is more than my older brother, who is still alive.
I have incredible technique.
I am sculpting my body
With impeccable form.
Young Beefer, you must gulp down your own sweat!
That Muscle Nectar that comes squirting out
Of your huge body in a mighty jet
At frightening speeds, and with such vicious clout
That it could kill a child. When you lift
Tremendous weights, the sweat shall sweetly pour
In floods across the Gym. It is a gift
To all who come to slurp it off the floor.
Young Beefer, when the Times Of Muscle come,
Be sure to have a chalice in your hands
To catch the perspiration that floods from
Your biceps. Sweat’s the syrup of your glands!
And though sweat is in any guise divine,
The sweetest sweat to drink is always thine.
When the Gym runs out of weights, I’ll lift my son.
He weighs about 100 pounds or so,
And it would give me a good workout
To lift him up and down as one would lift a barbell.
My son would stay quiet and rigid while I lift him up and down
And roar furiously as my muscles consume me.
He is a good boy.
He would stay very still and would be
A decent substitute for the weights I will miss dearly.
When the Gym runs out of weights, I’ll lift Gordon.
He is my neighbor, and he once told me
That he would never let me bench-press him,
But I think he was kidding.
I’d really have to push myself to the limit
When I am lifting my neighbor Gordon up and down to grow stronger.
Reps become sets.
Sets become workouts.
In a far-off corner of the ocean a lobster
Scuttles into an undersea volcano on purpose.
A cry of anguish passed across the Gym like a thick fog.
Word had just been passed down from the White House
That muscles were illegal.
In light of such dark tidings,
What choice did the muscular Beefers among us even have?
Muscles were everything to them, and so
Rather than live in a world without Muscles,
Those rippling behemoths slammed their own heads in the doors of their Acuras.
Their heads burst like grapes in the sedan doors
And their irresponsibly muscular arms hung limp and lifeless.
Everyone at the Gym agreed
That this made a tremendous amount of sense
And was, in the long run, for the best.
Carl Sagan, I am at the Gym.
It has been years since your passing, and I am
Curling weights with magnificent ease.
I’m stronger than I’ve ever been
And the guy at the front desk knows me.
I do numerous reps on the machines
But I never neglect the free weights.
You taught us about the planets
And the secret order in the sprawl of stars.
The Gym is a symphony of grunts!
I am not the strongest person here
But I’m still doing an amazing job.
You died in 1996 and the world
Grew darker in your absence.
Rest peacefully, proud voyager!
Your soul is now dispersed across the stars
And your wise mind, untroubled by worry,
Now ponders eternal the unsolvable mysteries of the cosmos.
I am out of control with strength!
The man who cleans the locker room says
That I come to the Gym too often, but I will never stop!
I alternate between bench press and sit-ups
And I glisten with sweat.