a poem by Paul Butters, UK

With swirling serves and
Lashing loops,
The Table Tennis King
Of spin,
Attacks his foe.

In gladiatorial combat
He reigns supreme,
Sweeping and swirling,
And feather-touching,
That gyrating ball.

For many hours he’s trained and sweated,
Perfecting skills from very youthful days.
He started in the youthie playing “Ping-Pong”,
To rise, a phoenix, from the local flames.

His coaches now sit very proudly,
Having made him sweat and toil.
With all that stamina-work behind him,
No way will he go off the boil.

At last he stands victorious,
Having made that final kill.
There is no game like Table Tennis,
And winning’s such a glorious thrill!

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