Your sweaty and nasty
Your bruised-up and sore,
The hair that you've tidied
is perfect no more.

The clothes that you've chosen
are locked up real tight,
in a break-proof blue locker
Through that door, to the right.

The bystanders, onlookers,
That glance as they pass
Do not recgonize you
Your not first, your not last.

For the baggy grey track pants
and sweat-drenched white Tee,
Are not figure-forming
Theres nothing to see.

Your not higher or better
Than those less endowed,
Your only a number
In a room full of rows.

For once, for a change,
Withought doubt, I can see
Theres no difference in gym class
from you and from me.