And just when things start turning ’round,
The desperate’s despairs compound.
Another plate of iron weight
Is added to the barbell pounds.
One hauls it with Sisyphian gait,
Atlassian shoulders popping sounds,
Amidst Himalayan estates,
Around the mounds on Raavan’s grounds.
A ten-brained poet could create
Resounding stotra world-renowned,
Despite his hopelessness of state,
But what of half-brained second-rates,
Irate at being overweight
On top of being fortune-frowned?
What chance they have to formulate
Repeating, rolling, rhyming sounds
That please the dancing feet of fate
Enough to raise one off the ground?

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