By Rick Walker
Through a cloud of chalk, the big man appears Belt cinched tight, no look of fear.
With blood shot eyes, he approaches the bar Rage flowing through him, a war in his heart.
The cold steel greets him, his best friend Un-racking the tonnage, the bar starts to bend.
Sets up in his stance now, and takes in his air The weight feels light, heís already there.
Unlocking his hips, and taking it down His mind now blank, he hears no sounds.
Reversing the gears, and driving it up The blood starts to flow, the crowd erupts.
A smile cracks his face, a bloody-toothed grin The bar grinds to lockout, heís helped to the pins.
Three whites blaze bright, the Vegas strip Thereís stars in his eyes, and blood on his lip.
A finger of thanks, to the Man up above He shakes off the haze and his handlerís hugs.
Itís just who he is, born, bred, and true Heíd die for the PR, heís paid his dues.
Cause thereís nothing like the feel, the knurled bar on his back He smiles; the loaders grab more plates from the stack.