Olympic days are far long past
When the pole of a barbel grasped
And hoisted up, his muscles strained.
At his red face, the crowds would gasp.
Just 18th place — below the man
Who hailed from old Turkmenistan
Brings low two years of training hard
And living out his minivan.
On the world stage, put to the test
With dreams of medals on his chest
The only dream he ever knew
And judged not even close to best
Denied the gods Olympic glow
Now meekly stocking shelves at Lowe’s
Wond’ring now what could have been
If he’d signed up for hammer throw.
But every year, he comes prepared
To hoist that barbell in the air
On whom the gods bestow their might:
The strongman at the county fair.
It’s poetry form time again! Yip yip! Today, it’s a ruba’i, an AABA style with Persian origins.