Squat

On the gym floor I drop to my knees,
A humble squat, the world in freeze.
Thighs like oak, back straight and true,
I lower slow, then push anew.

The bar rests heavy on my shoulders’ sigh,
A quiet pact between flesh and sky.
Each descent a breath‑held pause,
Each rise a cheer without applause.

No frills, no fanfare, just grit and grace,
Finding strength in this low‑placed space.
In British halls where tea is steep,
The squat remains a promise to keep.

So here I stay, bent low yet bold,
A story told in muscle, not in gold.
From London’s streets to Lancashire’s peat,
The squat endures – solid, sweet, elite.