They call him Manic Mike, steel in his veins,
Veins like lightning, pulsing through chains.
Clanging and banging before the dawn,
Deadlifts scream while the world yawns.

Eyes wide like a storm on fire,
Fueled by rage, caffeine, and desire.
Mirror cracked from his primal yell,
"Lightweight, baby!" straight outta hell.

One scoop? Nah, he dry scoops three,
Tastes like chalk and TNT.
Sleep's a myth, dreams are gains,
Squats so deep, they shake the plains.

Bloodshot focus, beast unchained,
Sweat pours down like it's been trained.
Friends say, "Mike, you good, my guy?"
He laughs, “I'm trenched up, I wanna fly.”

Benches buckle beneath his roar,
This isn’t lifting — it’s total war.
Triceps carved like gods from stone,
He walks the gym like it's his throne.

But when the night creeps in too slow,
And the rage turns soft, begins to grow,
He stares at stars, a quiet face—
Even titans need a hiding place.

Still, morning breaks, he's back again,
Manic Mike, with the mind of .
Not for fame, not for the 'Gram—
But because no one lifts like the maniac can.