Your shoulders and biceps set ablaze to to the beat,
To this resurrected tune from the plantations of long ago,
A specter that hangs over the shoulder when heard.
Hold that shit,
And you start to think this Sally chick might just be a real cold bitch.
Rinse and repeat the pain.
It's just 30 reps,
Why is it so infernally difficult?
The pressure builds in your muscles and your brain,
Pratcher & the Gardeners heedless of your pain.
The last chorus,
Just a little bit more,
Is it just you or is the music slowing?
The women are weeping,
At the poor departure of poor ol' Luxe.
The song cuts,
You sigh in relief,
As your body crumples on its own accord,
Sick of your efforts and insanity.