When new places go old school
I’ve got to say that I’m all in.
Don’t call things retro,
Simple is better,
Like going Rocky and Apollo
Sprinting down the beach,
Gulls confused and
Yoga posers unsure.
Only old school souls who feel primal urges
Know how great it feels to bang out a run
Over sand and crashing
Jersey Shore waves,
Especially before sunrise.
Then, after a few hours
Of contemplating the summer of ’61
When balls flew out at a record pace,
It’s time to test the muscles
Against gravity and father time.
Luckily, the Jersey Shore Mecca
Is just a twenty minute walk away
With real iron,
A sweat smell,
A crooked ass water cooler,
Pictures of Arnold everywhere,
And a vibe put down by heavy metal.
Old school, not an effing health club or fitness center,
A gym full of all the couldn’t give a crap
About wellness, warm up sets, or whiny ass soccer moms
Because this is a joint
Where “pick them up and put them down”
Rings true with each rep, each set,
Each appropriately expressive grunt
And all that heavy work.
Best fifty I’ve dropped in a long time…