[Intro]
Headphones on. World off.
Rack's loaded. Clock in.
[Verse 1]
Same corner, same iron, same monastic stare
Chalk dust rising off my hands like a working man's prayer
I feel the eyes collecting while I'm counting down the sets
Phones tilt sideways, slow and careless, souvenirs they'll never 'fess
And I hear the arithmetic — "no way that's natural, man"
Like the only road to this runs through a vial or a can
[Chorus]
It ain't what you think it is
It's thirty years of this
Ten thousand quiet mornings that you slept through, kid
You quit when it got heavy
I moved in when it got grim
Thirty years, not thirty minutes
That's the secret. That's the hymn.
[Verse 2]
I watch 'em chase a pump for fifteen minutes, call it war
Get a little damp, admire the mirror, hit the door
They've never met the moment when the muscle just says no
When your arms die mid-rep under a weight you chose to load
That's the door to something better, and it don't open with a wish
Most folks knock and walk away — I built my house past it
[Verse 3]
I keep my counsel quiet, got a nod for two or three
The kid who trains with hunger in his questions, he gets me
But I don't police the tourists, don't correct the circus show
You here to get better? Ask me. If not, enjoy the show
Fifty-two years old and they're asking when I compete
I just smile and pull the pin down two more plates deep
[Chorus]
It ain't what you think it is
It's thirty years of this
Ten thousand quiet mornings that you slept through, kid
You quit when it got heavy
I moved in when it got grim
Thirty years, not thirty minutes
That's the secret. That's the hymn.
[Bridge]
Yeah, genetics dealt me something, I won't pretend they didn't
But a good hand left unplayed is just a folded ticket
There's no needle full of showing up, no capsule full of years
The thing you swear I'm taking, son, gets measured out in tears
And sweat, and sleep, and groceries, and Tuesdays, and restraint
Discipline's the only substance — and they don't test for it, ain't that quaint
[Outro]
Headphones on. World off.
Fifty-two. Still climbing.
You call it a mystery
I call it thirty years of Tuesdays
Clock in.
The_SCAR
