Spartans has balls.
It’s your kinda place.
Walled with mirrors,
ringing with rock,
stinking of bodies
pumping iron.
Machines like robots
stand to attention,
row upon row
heavy with weights.
Gym junkies pump
ridiculous muscles
straining like Arnie,
pushing their edge.
The fat over fifties
(dripping with sweat)
rekindle the spark
of their pimply days.
You step on the treadmill,
increase the speed,
check out machines,
test your new body.
You don’t give a toss
for the new rehab centre
with its air conditioning
and manicured programs.
Spartans has balls.
It’s your kinda place.
Alison Cassidy
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spartans-gym/
