Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Makin' a Living

The lights blaze
The music blares
The fireworks fly

From behind the curtain
The magnificent man machine of muscle and might
Steps onto the stage and faces the mayhem's glare
He pauses, poses, scowls
And transfixes the audience with the knife of his laser stare

All the Saturday screamers are here packed with a month of hoots and howls
        anticipating the night's event
They leap to their feet
Flail the air with fists and shouts and wave a confetti of homemade signs

A blaze of fireworks scorches the air etching his bulk to the atmosphere  
        "Great audience,"   he thinks to himself
        "Got 'em goin' tonight."

He rips his signature power pose that pops his pecs to perfection
        "Grab these babies, Granny!"  he chides
Then moves to his stacked and racked six pac stance 'cepts bulging for all to awe
The rowdy crowd responds its wild approval
His bronzed body - waxed and stacked to the max glows in the spots
Somebody stokes the volume and the music pounds

The countless hours of workouts, sweat, pumping iron
And chugging protein shakes spiked with secret mystery brews pay off
He is the mortal wonder of the moment
The adoring fans scream in admiring frenzy
        "Back in action, baby.  You ain't seen nuthin' yet.
         I'm a living breathing force of destruction."
He locks his jaw and assumes his offended god glare for all to behold
Then begins the notorious march of doom down the catwalk
STOMP        STOMP        STOMP        STOMP

In that body that never quite felt at home in the button down suits
And the bland hallways that snake through the elevator office world
He lives free here
He struts his stuff
He's got the style
He knows the script
He plays for keeps
And he holds his own among the reigning god idols of wrestling
        "Give 'em what they want, baby
         Let 'em tear their hearts out."
The fans respond in a sweat soaked roar
And gleefully speculate on the coming war   
Rehearsed, yeah, but plenty can go wrong!

With the grip of giants he grabs the lower rope
Slides into the ring
Rises menacingly to his full height in a single move and scans the room
Daring all comers
Oblivious to an announcer's prattle and the blue shirted insect in the corner

It's his day
His show
His rule
He stalks the ring in controlled disdain
Flexing and posing that smooth groomed sculpture
Sending ripples from shoulder to shoulder with the quick flicks of his neck
        "We got it on, baby.  Let's move.  Rock 'n roll."

With the stealth of cats
He leaps to the top of the ropes at the turnbuckle
Stretches high on splayed beefed thighs to his full glory
The ultimate answer to a promoter's prayer

Then whips the championship belt from his waist
Spreads his feet to the ropes like a living Colossus of Rhodes
And in his towering Statue of Liberty pose
Triumphantly brandishes the golden prize to adoring fans

       “It doesn't get any better'n this,” his mind screams to the fever
       "Eighteen minutes baby.  Give 'em eighteen minutes.
        The best damn eighteen minutes of their puny little lives!"  

       “What a hell 'ava way to make a living!"

c  10/07
Sandy Hartman   

 (Batista- heavyweight who is no longer with the WWF)

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