The pull-up king, with a beautiful crown,
Would sprint and leap throughout the town.
With a shiny pole, a big car,
He could reach a great star.
He'd do ten right out of bed,
His pull-up skills would go to his head.
His strong arms would carry him with amazing glee,
He'd sail joyfully for all to see.
He'd do ten more at lunch,
And often have an incredible bunch.
Ten every fifteen minutes, he'd gaze at his watch,
His powerful hands never feel like they had a spotch.
He was a funny hero, you see,
He could do a hundred easily.
He'd feel so infallible, a perfectly solid rock,
He'd slowly gracefully move past the clock.
Then he'd suddenly try to do one push-up instead,
And would quickly fall painfully flat on his face.
He'd unfortunately groan, sadly to his own shame,
And would have to desperately get back in the game.