King Of The Massage Table

He was king of the massage table down at the gym.
You would never forget a treatment by him.
His bottles of oil contain magical things
that can make you feel like you've spread your wings.
Gingli oil makes you supple and quick,
makes all of your movements feel so slick,
makes you feel vigorous, sharp and strong,
makes your stamina last so long.
Sweet almond oil gives you a sense of well-being,
makes your senses so sharp, gives you new ways of seeing.
He can tell if your system has adequate salt
or if you've abused it with costly Scotch malt.

He'll release your tight muscles, and make them relax.
He has heated towels piled up on the racks
to encase your body in stimulating wraps.
Occasionally he rinses his hands under taps,
then he pounds and kneads and beats and rubs,
as you lie there surveying the Jacuzzi tubs.
He knows where the sensitive spots are located.
He can find just the place you need stimulated.

He knows the amount of pressure to apply,
as you lie there and feel you might soon start to fly.
He finds the most sensitive spots in the muscle,
and in the deep tissue the trigger points rustle.
He knows how to stretch and retrain your muscles.
He knows how to cause such visceral tussles
in the fast twitch fibres as he makes them contract.
He's the greatest masseur. That's truly a fact.

He works over them all, feeling each in its turn.
The endorphins come out. You can feel them burn.
The deltoids, pectorals, trapezius, and biceps,
Latissimus dorsi, soleus and triceps,
Infraspinatus, tibialis anterior,
the blood flows fast through venae cavae inferior,
pumping faster and faster as your heartbeats increase
you wish that the motion will never cease.
You drift off in a dream as his hands go on kneading –
When you wake up, he's gone – and you find yourself pleading:
"I must have an hour to see him quite soon."
"Well, there's Monday at five, and then Friday at noon!"
"I'll take both those times. Write my name in the book."
The receptionist gives you a knowing look!