"sox" poems
She may not have been your prototype teen or hiree.
Or of the masses. Or herd.
However, she did walk into a McDonald's
approach the counter
emit an esoteric exchange for help with the cashier
and with knowing eyes
the cashier directed her to the starting gate.
Now
with application in hand
and blue ribbons in her eyes
she was off to the horse races,
nervousness riding on her shoulders.
In my eyes, she was a longshot to win,
where I could see her shoes falling off
before the race started.
And her imaginary jockey falling off her horse
from laughing so hard,
for she presented herself through the restaurant
and a job interview with a Starbucks frappe,
totally oblivious of her unwrapping.
It would be like turning up for a Yankee's job
in a Red Sox outfit.
Who would do this?
As the rubberneckers, I looked on.
Incredulous.
She took her seat at a vacant table
carrying her youth awkward.
Her looks of brown hair, eyes, and raw innocence
complimentary.
But those jeans, high risers, with holes in the knees
with a white Bebe shirt that hugged her shape
shouted trendy but not job interview.
Oh, my.
She continued the procession
extracting info from her phone
and filling out her application.
No doubt with votive candles at her side
and prayers on her lips.
And perhaps blue ribbons awaiting.
After all, this was her foot in the door.
It was at this time
I had an epiphany moment
tears welling in my eyes
as I slipped on hamburger choices
and sipped on past life on a teether,
totally oblivious, too.
It was like looking in the mirror.
Her youth and awkwardness and my growing decadence
towards the light.
When the manager came in and summoned her
to the interview table,
which was located in the dining room,
I saw a little kitten purr inside of her,
where her eyes nervously checked her surroundings.
At first introduction,
the reddening blush on her face and Adam's apple
stood pronounced
but her low voice was choked.
Almost inaudible.
As the manager put her calming hands
into hers
the light turned on
all foreboding escaping.
All misplaces and tense faces replaced with aces.
This was a defining moment for her,
as the golden arches braced her feet,
making all the rubberneckers, me, proud.
Logan Robertson
6/6/2018
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
I can't escape the thought of you lately it seems
I hear Thrice, Icon for Hire, Avenged Sevenfold, 7eventh Time Down,
Sent By Ravens, hear them everywhere
See your brother in the store
See your mom at church
See a guitar
See the color red, the color green
Think of Christmas and what you meant to me
*Someone who waited for me to reach comfort
Someone who left me too soon
You accepted every piece of me
You played the game, where we let the world laugh*
The thought of skipping
When I dance, the salsa, anything
Watching the Sox game
Walking past you're old spot
*Remembering everyday that seemed to last forever and end
too quickly*
Every time I write the letter 'X,' your favorite
Think of green eyes, and how we said yours secretly were
Think Taylor Swift and the joke that you two were destined
My birthday comes and how you were the only one who
remembered that year
Each time I still wear the perfume you bought me
Whenever I think of movies and how you drove out to be with me
See a bicycle or think long walks
Hear music in a language I don't understand
Get frustrated at Ecclesiastical Latin, because you do understand
Hide from the violence, because you grew up with it too
Think of leaving
Think of silence
Think of lies
Think of empty promises
Think of "I'll come back for you"
Think of calculus
And how you are such a nerd
And I stare at my paper
At these nonsensical equations
Of calculus
Of us
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
old soybean crop dry & brown
---empty rustcap 12 shot bottle canadian club premium
---broken ("good quality")
wooden blinds
crowfeathers.
muddy packs of darts:
ménage (4)
peter jackson (2)
next (1)
number seven blacks (3)
john player (2)
shreds---plastic . . . bags of earth
all manner cardboard thinlike
drinkcups (tim horton's mostly)
******
child's wristwatch (..plastic)
frog in a cardboard box
dozen pair new (white) socks? still bagged---
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
peanut butter peanut butter
is good for your ma and good for ya papa
you see i put peanut butter on bread
abour 23 times, i buy 2 loaves of bread
and i make 23 peanut butter sandwiches
i enjoy it, as the peanut butter sticks to the bread
and my mouth, i love peanut butter sandwiches
they are very nice for me to eat
but it’s high in fat and eating too many peanut butter sandwiches
can be fatal, you see i look like a little young dude
walking aroung with white sox and a tracksuit
eating my peanut butter sandwiches
you see i vision young women or men put
peanut butter all over their legs
to make a pornographic movie
i visioned a young mate mark ward legs
sticky like peanut butter
peanut butter peanut butter very sticky as you bite
get your mouth sticking together
i remember those days of going to the kitchen up and back up and back
making peanut butter sandwiches i still want that
but if had it now, i would get up to 170 kilos
so if you eat peanut butter peanut butter
it is great to enjoy a spread of peanut butter
to enjoy every day and night
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 7:36 AM UTC
War paint I always found unnecessary:
Gloss for manicured lipstick commercial princesses
Not of my kind.
And though I walk with shield, I am without armour:
Ramparts mere cheekbones,
Bare skin impressionable as snow.
Boot-print,
The mark I hated. My characters:
Frail tree rings, exposed to the chill night air.
Gold inlay frozen solid.
The fairly bound dream factory
Lies purple with melancholy.
It’s the world’s bruise. It colours sudden,
Shadowing the other side of the room
Where it paused, rare moth
Lighted upon my dark reflection,
A Mona Lisa dressed in black
And reminiscent of bobby sox.
Beauty without fanfare.
Stuff of woods: we do not glitter.
We don’t call out.
Our tongues are both dumbstruck bells.
Shy rabbits, we fold within ourselves
And sequester our secret pulp.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 7:15 PM UTC
No more komakazee crows
No more angry nehibors and
Their apple guns.
No more slow winks.
No more toilet bowls
And no more ham.
No more wet hair after a shower.
No more drooling on my face.
Remember that **** dog.
Remember you and him kissed like eskimos.
Remember sleeping in my train tunnel.
I wish I still played with trains.
I wish I still played euphonium.
I wish we never lost our house.
My old friend, is it time for me to go away.
You were the last.
The last pet mom ever will own.
She told us no more animals.
She cried tonite,
She said im so sorry soxy.
A longntime ago
A longtime 6 hours in school felt.
A long strected out cat
Waited for us on the steps.
I rubbed my face in his glossy chest.
I rubbed my third grade nose up and down
His body hoping for a play bite.
His tongue licked my ears three times,
Three times until he took a bite.
My hands resembled the bird,
The bird he never killed.
He turned me into a contortinist.
He made my leggs cramp.
He made my matress his middle ground.
His middle my yoga sleep.
After showers he hunted my head.
He layed on my face.
He licked my dripping buzz cutt.
He licked the milk off of my first mustache.
He ruined the left over ham.
He made my favorite sandwhich
A challenge.
He could smell me open the can and mix the
Mayonase with pickles.
He left me a dead mouse on my train tracks.
He had white drops of paint on his paws.
White furry paint,
Mom told us he had sox on his feet,
He was born with the name we gave him
Sox not socks,
Not the socks you get tired of wearing.
Not the socks you get mixed up durrning laundry.
Our sox kept us on our toes.
Our sox.
The **** cat
That really owned our house.
Hell always be sox,
The **** cat,
The **** voice my brother made up.
The **** drool I let rub against my face
Will never go away.
Ill kiss him like an eskimo.
Ill biuld him a eskimo fire
And hope he chooses to
rub noses with My dog J.C again
I hope he goes gently into the nite (Dylan Thomas).
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
Section 25, Lot 1115…Gate of Heaven Cemetery….Hawthorne New York
Number 3 in your program, number 1 in your hearts.
Gramps would tell me all the stories and what a big deal they made when he walked up to bat.
Number 3..3..3, Babe..babe…babe…, Ruth..ruth..ruth! Followed by the roar of loving fans!
Today Babe, I’m leaving you a Sabretts hotdog & a fifth of Scotch.
I know you’re out there cooling off under a shade tree with a cabbage leaf on your head.
1-2-3 who are rooting for? Well it ain’t those lousy Red Sox's!
It’s the Babe doing the walk up to “Ain’t She Sweet, See her walking down the street."
The cathedral of baseball, the Bronx Zoo,
The House that Ruth built right there at 161st and River.
You just can't beat the person who never gives up!
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
I saw you withering
before me, like I felt the air in my diaphragm build up slow
then fall out shakily.
I saw my grandmother wince
put her hand to her mouth,
side-ways gripping this tiny Chaplain
who’s name I’d forgotten, the moment I heard it.
I saw my cousin staring deep into empty space, his nervousness illuminated
under harsh hospital light. My uncle’s red tie screaming in this room of too tired eyes,
wearing reddened faces from crying.
The fear of this reality bit at our ankles. We shifted in place, we talked about the Sox game. We dared each other to keep on pretending to carry on.
Through this blur,
I saw you underneath piles of tubes.
Lain upon the bed a shattered man
shoulder blades peeking upward and out in what was poised to be
an eternal shrug
head hung, eyes fluttering, only held up in increments of straining. Straining to be part of this conversation about nothing.
About your impending death.
Rounds of tears and silence
rounds of nurses coming
and going,
rounds of knowing
then suddenly,
not knowing.
Propped up by a tank of air, a bag of liquid, a ton of pillows and the slow-burning will to live.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 9:10 PM UTC
I'm looking for terrorists
In jeans, clean-shaven,
But with a bulging mid-riff.
Will he have a back-pack,
Carry a brown paper lunch
With a portmanteau.
I just gave the valet my keys,
And I didn't check his shoes
And certainly not his under-armour.
I live ten thousand miles away,
Just down the street;
So why hurt me.
We cheer for the Bo-Sox
Side by side,
He's familiar to my eyes.
I believe he was changing my oil
When I saw the sideways glance,
But I can't be sure,
When I don't know
What to look for.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC
THE LADY in red, she in the chile con carne red,
Brilliant as the shine of a pepper crimson in the summer sun,
She behind a false-face, the much sought-after dancer, the most sought-after dancer of all in this masquerade,
The lady in red sox and red hat, ankles of willow, crimson arrow amidst the Spanish clashes of music,
I sit in a corner
watching her dance first with one man
and then another.
1.7k
IT'S a lean car ... a long-legged dog of a car ... a gray-ghost eagle car.
The feet of it eat the dirt of a road ... the wings of it eat the hills.
Danny the driver dreams of it when he sees women in red skirts and red sox in his sleep.
It is in Danny's life and runs in the blood of him ... a lean gray-ghost car.
1.6k
looking around me, 19 second stop at a red light and already the large, bearded man with the scar on his cheekbone is grumbling, scratching at his bushy mustache and drooping Yankees hat, so faded it could almost be a B for the red sox
there's a young woman, ***** blonde hair cascading down her back, almost gracefully; seemingly too small for the rumbling white pickup truck she sat in, scratched and almost a tint of blue from this angle; one hand at the wheel, one tickling the feet of a giggling newborn at her side, for a second i wondered who the father was-
and over there, a skinny Hispanic boy by the side of the road, walking with threadbare sandals flapping against the hard cement, there's a hopeless look in his eyes-
an old man with a 5-inch long grey beard, almost touching the steering wheel; he's either Asian or he's squinting into the sun, can't really tell from here- wrinkles lining his worn face
a strong-boned Japanese woman, hair in a tight bun driving a Ferrari
a red-haired bespectacled boy, pale as chalk, his face covered with freckles (or was it acne?); couldn't have been older than 17; he looked like a Robert or a Charles, definitely not a Samuel
in front of me, a red Chevy truck with a license plate LUVANN, i wonder if Ann is still with him- i crane my head upwards trying to see the man, all i can glimpse is a blue-and-white bandana-
i wonder who all these people are,
what are their hopes and dreams, do they like ******* jacks? banana splits?
where are they going?
who will miss them when they're gone, or will anyone-
then the light turns green and in a puff of smoke,
like a blur-
they're gone.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 3:12 AM UTC
Meet the Whisperer....
(Oh, and you will want to, promise :)
1.
He can shape and mould
To aught pleasure he desires.
When he calls them at will
Supple compliance at his command.
Yes, they come like twitching magnets
Real easy beck and call.
Such happy slaves are they
Very few recalcitrant ones.
He twists and trims their sides
Makes them kneel before his want.
He will harness their might
Bend them sweetly to his gratifix.
Perchance, skittish on occasion
Yet they serve their master well.
They can spread to furthest capacity
Turning dried veracity into well-loved fable.
He whips them to submission
Insanely alive, they need birth certificates!
Yet tenderly, he caresses, explores
Renders dramatic echoes in outrageous lore.
2.
They melt like marvelous putty, toffee in deft hands
Makes them caress YOU sensuous, everywhere...
They reach deep, tap in and touch your core
Delight or thrill....or equally meet your mind.
Yes, they can stick you with bruising truth
Move you, or bring you to your knees....
They can furnish context with telling content
And with stunning detail, woo the sox off thee :-p
He articulates every brief encounter
With sage and timeless passion.
Molten liquid drips from his entrancing tip
In gilt carriages headed your way....
When the whisperer appears, best be ready
To receive what he may see fit to flay on you!
If that's too tall an order, it amounts to
Clipped wings, falling sadly short of flight.
Be willing to taste that mesmerising lilt
Indebted you'll be to the lack of crude reality.
Oh, reader...retire not spirit of droll mind
Revel eager in rich spark for riveting trips.
Yes, he is the one, your...
One and only word-whisperer.
(Enchante, cher lecteur :)
bows
Star Toucher, 28 March 2013
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
My Dad built a whoopee room in the basement of our house, that's what we called it back in the fifties, basically it was a free barroom; he worked tirelessly, tiled the floor, knotty-pined the walls, built a Formica-topped bar, with foot rail, and a pool table center stage.
At one end, he pasted and framed with the utmost care, a life-like mural, a bucolic scene of mountains, pines trees, some guy canoeing across a deep blue lake, right underneath an eight foot, padded bench to sit, toss a beer, gab Red Sox, Pats, Bruins, Celts.
The guy could make anything, fix anything in his neat as a pin workshop, totally in control, competent, a rack of tools, his innate ability to figure out, you name it, he’d fix it, in hands-on kingdom this man did it right, measured twice, cut once.
In the Mr. Fix-it realm my father welcomed me, drew me in, shared his man in the know ways, I fetched his tools a quick study daughter, I observed knew ahead of time, like an operating room nurse ready to assist the famous surgeon at his work.
But then without prior notice he’d grow silent, retreat, drink copious whiskey shots, get mean, angry, tried to outrun the never good enough farm boy he once was, this love starved kid would engulf my honest, hardworking, overly sensitive, insecure father, then we all suffered his childhood trauma all over again.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
doopth..doopth..doopth..
the intonation of a gavel
upon a felted block
order, orrrder,
i now call to order this
washday gathering
of the
metaphysical
analytical
socks
drawer # 1793
all rise and come to toetip
for the grand entry of
the great thrice darned heel
kazoos squeak the intro
to the ode to joy
an old grey golf sock is
ushered in to sit slouched
on the top of the washer/dryer.
he observes the following proceedings.
now to business
the agenda for the day
1. groove and the toe socks
table their report on the
systematic eradication of toejam.
2.the tradditionalists continue
the open discussion on,
wool versus synthetic,
for winterwear.
3.we have a vote scheduled
on the referedum matter:
do we allow sandals and thongs
guest status in this drawer.
4.the metaphysicists update
us on the age old conundrum;
"where do the odd socks go?"
at present they are devling
into the posibilities of
superposition of states,
as presented by
the schrodinger's cat theory.
5. the analytical group are meanwhile, surveying the remaining
evenless socks;
to obtain data on the pairless state of being
6. and finally, we welcome a deposition from the natralists;
with regard to use of bamboo
and hemp to allow for the wicking
of footwater, for a longer lasting
freshness of the base arch construction.
please feel free to attend one or
more of these discussions, contributions and /or questions
will be taken after the presentations.
i am also asked to inform you, that
the metatarsals group has a table of goods for sale, at the leftside of the wash basket.
items include:
new elastics and darning equipment.
books on special this meet are;
the ever popular
"how not to become a sock puppet"
and the tragic
"my life as a duster"
then there is the new offering of
"sox and jox:
the art of underwear
diplomacy."
and one last item of note:
a reminder that membership fees,
(of one clean toe clipping) are due
before next months gathering
go now,
enjoy the gathering.
and may the foot be with you
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC
Dear God, The Boston Red Sox Win The World Series?
My congratulations to themselves from Bahstom,
I am sure you will wear your crown with classy
NY Yankee Pride and not riot in the streets
As has been known to happen in Beantown.
But I though I would let you know,
Having spoken to god on Yom Kippur,
He confessed it was a typing mistake.
He meant for the Chicago White Sox
To be resurrected and to win,
Not noticing he was auto-incorrected,
Reassuring me that he was
Installing IOS7, so it won't happen again.
Pride goeth before the fall of 2014.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
Yankees, Reds and Red Sox
Royals, Rockies, Braves
Mariners and White Sox
Cardinals, Blue Jays
Angels, Orioles, Diamondbacks
Nationals and Twins
Tigers, Brewers, Pirates
Astros, Indians
Dodgers, Rangers, Mets and Cubs
Phillies and Padres
Giants, Marlins and the A's
Let's not forget those Devil Rays
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
DelBear 3030, this ink abuse is for you
A silent guardian of my sanity that's got my baseball team on you too
You don't judge, you simply abide when I'm talking to myself in my room lost in Depression or feeling especially despised
Del, the Funky Sox Bear you're a friend who's seen me laugh, cry, write, create And destroy
You've seen me through almost all phases, you're more than a toy
A silent fuzzy diary, I couldn't ask for a better friend,
Del The Funky Sox Bear And Nero, White Sox until the end
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
*LAUNDROMAT SONGS
"How long shall they **** our prophets as we stand aside and look?”
‑‑ Bob Marley
Saturday morning,
the scene's the same
round and round
suds and foam,
round and round
energetic flashes of life
play, giggle and roam.
"Can I have a quarter
to play video games?
Hey mom, can I get a
soda and some chips?"
~~~~~
It's always bedlam,
even at 3 am,
always the same
neighborhood faces
some smiling, others
wrinkled like
clothes with a stain problem.
Clothes and lives
sharing destinies.
***** clothes, old and worn,
***** hard driven lives.
Both, beat and torn,
both trying to get clean
fresh from this
bone weariness
reflected like patched knees,
lost buttons,
mismatched sox
or those brown streaked undies,
reflecting our brown stained lives.
~~~~~
Round and round go the clothes.
Round and round so goes our lives
that no matter what we do
seems always in need of mending.
Round and round
women, kids
and clothes in tow.
Men, if there,
in the background,
begrudgingly,
but always fighting for control.
~~~~~
Sometimes though the juke wails
joyful music prevails
causing feet to tap
and lips to smile.
Maybe some Miles
or hip hop Coup
announce a new rinse cycle.
Some young'un dropped the coin
but you can see
all are keeping time
with these way out songs.
Finally, eyes reveal hidden,
no more suppressed,
revelry,
clothes are folded musically.
The kid knows his tunes,
out jumps a "classic";
"Redemption Songs".
Marley at his best
conscious style, a request.
"Won't you help me sing
these songs of freedom.
Redemption songs.
They're all I ever had
redemption songs."
~~~~~
You can see it in
lint filled air swirling,
eyes gleaming,
kids screaming;
you can taste the hope
and dreams.
A joyous hunger
of patched jeans,
men and women sway
in unison. For 3 minutes, 25 seconds,
on this very early morn,
the possibilities of relations
rinsed clean
of men and women
folding clothes
smelling fresh,
wishing for a better way.
~~~~~
It is only a glimpse
this Saturday morning.
A round and round
scene
that holds promise
as old, worn clothes
wash,
spin,
dry
and leave refreshed,
clean.
On this morn
a few eyes, alert
wishful,
leave singing;
"Redemption songs,
they're all I ever had,
these songs of freedom."
~~redzone 5.22.99~~
(posted by Aztec Warrior writing as redzone)*
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
All of a Sudden
I was on my way to work, standing on the corner
waiting for the walk like to flash before crossing
I glanced over my left shoulder to check the traffic
before proceeding forward, when all of a sudden
there you were, a double-take if ever there was
eye-grabbing, breath-taking golden-haired goddess
I could not help but stare at her, even though I audibly
told myself do not stare at her you bumbling fool ...
Ir was 2 am when I awoke in a chilling sweat. The sheets
were soaked as my body was drenched. I had been having
this horrible dream, no nightmare. I was trying to evade
these South Equdorian rebels, who though I was some
sort of spy for the CIA, the FBI, NSC or something.
I had ducked in some heavy brush, when all of a sudden
there you were, the golden goddess I had seen this
morning while waiting to cross the street. You were
signaling to me to stay down, with your finger over
your lips telling me to stay quiet...
Ah Friday night, two tickets to see the Boston Red Sox
at Fenway park. What a way to spend an evening.
A co-worker who I had dated several times had scored
two box seat tickets from her boss at the Bank.
At the end of the 3rd inning, I told Emma I was going
to get us a couple of dogs and beers and strecth my legs
I walked up the ramp to the concession stand and got
in line. I looked over at the next line, when all of a sudden
there you were, this was the third time in 3 days that
we had crossed paths. Coincidence? What's the odds?
Something was going on and I needed to find out
what that something was. I decided I was going to
stop her and ask what was going on. I took my eyes
off of her for only a brief couple of seconds, but when
I looked back, she was nowhere in sight. I mean nowhere...
Gomer LePoet...
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 4:45 PM UTC
This is happening more and more.
It’s ungodly early and we’re tripping on bricks
a pack of feckless teenagers still.
That never changed.
The tall one, skinny with rosy cheeks
and the eyes of a fighter
is holding loosely onto my hand
his nose won’t stop bleeding.
We follow the broad intimidating one
in a red sox hat,
he’s punching every stop sign we pass
and just hollering
how we’ll always stick together
you don’t mess with family
(I’ve known them all for three weeks)
his accent is getting thicker through his swollen lip.
In the rear the shorter one, but still much taller than me,
his hair stuck up in all directions
is still getting his breath back from that sock to the stomach.
We all love that frozen moment, when first punch turns to full on brawl.
Peter says even if you get hit, at least you’re feeling something.
We all taste like bourbon, cause this is the South now.
I’m draggin’ them home in my favorite blue skirt,
two heads shorter at least.
Saying, soon we’ll be home boys, I’ll fix you up then.
Because they’ll fight for me, I fight for them.
Saying stop punching public property, Paul and
Stevie, I’ve got you, don’t cry
The Pats are on tomorrow boys, and we’ve all got work to do.
just a little longer
I find family where I can these days.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 7:21 PM UTC
Dark days and brighter nights.
Why do we wake, when it doesn't feel right?
Can we go to sleep when the sun rise?
A bunch of people living an unnormal life.
Lets have dinner first and breakfast last.
Lets spend more time then we do cash.
Can we drive on the streets when their empty, not full.
Lets make this bitter life, not so dull.
lets wear sox but, not shoes.
Get use to the ****
Find a night job, create our own school.
The law doesn't say, be awake in the day.
Lets do things different but, still okay.
We will live our own lives.
Unnoticed at night.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
"Melting into the floor in the icebox
all the effects are wearing off
The temperatures wrong
I got them double sox"
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
I am up so late
the Yankees fans next door
screaming through the cinder blocks.
Infected all over. I am
exhausted and done with this.
I would like to go shoe shopping,
but there is 5.00 to my name.
I spent it all on medicine
for this sad little heart.
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
Baseball, the national pastime,
one of the slowest games in the world;
hot dogs, beer and half-crazed fans,
once the sphere is rudely hurled.
The rain, the wind, the humid days,
we sit for hours and cheer;
what is it about this loony game,
that to us the fans, endear?
We hate the ref, will taunt the ump,
we hoot and call out loudly;
they play the national anthem,
and most of us stand proudly.
The Red Sox and the Yankees,
the losers and the best;
it gives us fits and starts,
so much, we cannot rest.
But when that ball goes in the stands,
it's a lovely thing to see;
who can live without the game?
certainly, not me.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC