I love to play badminton – yes, I truly do,
In this I’m not alone; I bet that you do, too.
I would play for hours… oh, if only I could,
And if only my legs didn’t feel like wood.

I like to do the short serve and also the flick,
If only I could hit the shuttle, that would be slick.
And when I do manage to make bird meet racket,
Then everything’s swell… except for that blasted net.

I have a mean smash, I could drive down the line,
If not for tennis elbow, all would have been fine.
My slice and drop shots, they’re actually quite great,
If only racket and shuttle would cooperate.

And the hairpin netshot – I could nail it, I’m sure,
That is, if my bad back could endure more torture.
My backhand return is really one of a kind,
I only wish they wouldn’t kill it every single time.

It’s really not that hard – doing the round-the-head,
If I could just glide sideways with these feet of lead.
I like doing the jumpsmash; I can leap really high,
Coming back to earth, that’s when I ask myself, “Why?”

With trained footwork, around the court I would whiz,
If only I had no plantar fasciitis.
Then jumping and lunging would be peanuts for me,
If I only knew how to mend this aching knee.

Reach for that passing shot, got to bend down low,
But my paunch and baby fat forbid me from doing so.
Be on your toes, move around the court, always be ready,
If only I was younger, I’d have the oomph and energy.

If only they had kept their lifts and clears in check,
Wouldn’t have ended up with a crick in my neck.
Keep your eye on the shuttle – yes, that’s the idea,
Easier said than done; you see, I have myopia.

In spite of all these afflictions and woes of mine,
I’ll still play badminton ‘til I’m seventy nine.
Then, someday I would exclaim, “I’ve overcome my Waterloo!”
If only my doubles partner stopped making excuses, too.