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John F McCullagh Apr 2021
On this, the last night of our world,
As rockets flare and people scream,
A floating mount of arctic ice
has made a nightmare of our dream.
Dear Charlotte, get into the boat.
Don't make an orphan of our child.
I smile and lie and say that I
will be along in just a while.
She nods, and we share a final kiss,
a kiss redolent of goodbye.
It is my hope that they will live,
while I prepare myself to die.
Doomed gentlemen upon the deck;
noble, wealthy or in trade.
I play as brave as any there
In this, our final masquerade.
Their little lifeboat floats away
adrift upon a sea of glass.
I pray, for the first time in years,
full knowing that this cup won't pass.
Should I go down with the ship?
That is the Captain's choice, I hear.
Or put a gun into my mouth
And firing, put an end to fear?
No. I will stand with these brave men,
Who made the choice that I have made.
We'll leap before Titanic sinks
And in these depths find honorable graves.
John F McCullagh Apr 2021
From Cy Young to DeGrom
The distance stayed the same
Sixty feet, six inches
It’s the measure of the game.
Each base is Ninety feet apart
In Diamond shape arrayed.
Shortstops still get the runner
Wherever the game is played.
Home plate is Seventeen inches wide
And the pitcher toes the rubber
These are the articles of faith
For any baseball lover.
In every City in this land
Where Freedom used to ring.
The sounds around the Diamond
Were a welcome sign of Spring.
You can meddle with the mound
And fiddle with its height,
But don’t touch the distance from home plate
Unless you’re ready for a fight.
Its true we now play games at night
But surely that’s our loss.
When you tally up the profits
You forget about the costs.
This game was born for Summer
On hot afternoons they played.
When you lose the children, Manfred,
That is when you lose the game.
Our game is not played with a clock
Yet there’s an ending to each game
In this it is like life itself-
for the keepers of the Flame.
adding phantom runners  experimenting with a clock and meddling with the geometry of baseball are just some of Rob Manfred's sins against the game
John F McCullagh Apr 2021
It was simple curiosity, I have just myself to blame.
I was not the man’s disciple, though of course I knew the name.
I could see that he’d been beaten, saw the cruel marks of the lash.
I was told he’d fallen more than once on the steep and stony path.

So when the Centurion beckoned me, I hurried to comply.
I have a healthy fear of swords and was in no rush to die.
He bade me to take up the cross, to put my back into it.
I took the Prophet’s burden on; he could no longer do it.

Most of his friends abandoned Him, this man from Galilee.
He who soon would breathe his last stretched painfully on this tree.
They did not wish to share his fate, a death upon the cross.
They scattered into hiding just as soon as all seemed lost.

This work was hot and difficult for one man all alone
I struggled up the incline, Stepping carefully, stone by stone.
The Prophet was a beaten man whereas I was young and strong.
He came to this place to die, but I would get back home.

I saw his look of gratitude as I put my burden down.
I ‘ll not forget the dripping blood from down his thorny crown.
He said I’d be remembered for this thoughtful, kindly deed.
I told him notoriety is the last thing that I need
A man named Simon of Cyrene has a date with destiny at a place called Golgotha  outside Roman occupied Jerusalem
John F McCullagh Mar 2021
The gypsy lady told me
On that dark and fateful night
That one day you would leave me
And it turned out she was right.

She took my palm quite roughly
As she told me my dark past.
She was gazing into the crystal ball
But all I saw was glass.

She said I’d know the darkness,
That close cousin to despair,
When I’d wake up to discover
The bed cold and you not there.

The gypsy lady told me
On that dark and fateful night
That one day you would leave me
And it turned out she was right.

For much is gained and much is lost
In a life lived on a bet.
Brief was our time together
Just like the gypsy said.
Intended as a song
John F McCullagh Feb 2021
I wasn’t sure how old he was,
I don’t think even he knew.
Age never seemed to matter much
On the days that Satchel threw.

He always had a ready smile
Especially up there on the mound.
And I’m sure he had more pitches
Than I had fingers to put down.

With time his fastball had slowed a bit
But it never seemed to matter.
He’d just reach into his bag of tricks
To strike out another batter.

He didn’t have an ounce of fat;
He was sinewy and lean.
He might have been a grandpa
But he could still pitch for my team.

Old father Time stepped up to the plate
In a match anticipated
Well you can check the box score, friend.
Time left ticked off and deflated.
" How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?"- Satchel Paige
John F McCullagh Jan 2021
Oh, pity the suits! The masterful class,
who Robin-hood traders just kicked in the ***.
Sitting high in their towers of concrete and steel
They thought naked shorts were the art of the deal.
They shorted more shares than are said to exist
So henceforth they just ought to cease and desist!
The retail investors, those dumb money fools,
Bought up call options and took them to school.
The rich lost their shorts and maybe their shirts,
They can perhaps sell their mansions and go live in yurts.
If they have some bitcoins perhaps they can sell them
But never buy shares in a hedge fund named Melvin!
Always remember to cover your shorts, especially if they are naked shorts
John F McCullagh Jan 2021
For four years we endured them;
Trumps ' lame, incessant tweets.
He pilloried both friend and foe,
in victory and defeat.

He raised name calling to an art;
His dislikes he made plain
His politics lacked subtlety.
His ranting seemed insane.

Now his account is frozen-
he nevermore may tweet
We will not hear his theories
about how opponents cheat.

He stands  accused ( and justly so)
Of inciting folks to violence
So his social media accounts are closed
and all that's left is silence.
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