Hey! Batter! Hey, hey batter!
Hey! Batter, swing!
There is the wind up. Here comes the pitch.
Fastball, slider, curve, but which is which?
Bases are loaded, it’s up to you…
Swing for the fences! Do what you do!
No one to help you. The ump is blind.
There’s so much pressure. Two runs behind.
You stand alone on the precipice.
Give it your best shot! A swing… a miss…
Hey! Batter! Hey, hey batter!
Hey! Batter, swing!
So many hecklers… the catcher laughs.
It’s just his job to try to distract.
You are all warmed up, ready to go…
Swing for the fences! Do what you know!
The fans are yelling, calling you names.
It’s life or death now, not just a game.
Millions are counting on your strong wrist.
Eye on the ball but… another miss…
Hey! Batter! Hey, hey batter!
Hey! Batter, swing!
Lean in closer, maybe you’ll get hit.
Just some pain from an errant pitch.
Forget that! Focus! Let’s make the news.
Swing for the fences! What will you lose?
You lured the pitcher into your trap.
One more second everyone will clap.
You’re in the zone now, there’s no defense.
Over the plate… Now Over the fence!
Hey! Batter! Hey, hey batter!
Hey! Batter, swing!
Donning sable spots on buff hearts:
With all the resolve an’ brutality
They pursue their prey;
Stopping at nothing but the
Quarry’s final gasp for a breath
They’re the pillaging African wild dogs:
So unflagging in the heart an’ rigid on feet
The ultimate hecklers of
He who stitches for others,
The one who gets lost on the way
They’re the invincible African wild dogs:
In deadly packs an’ persistent in manner
They grip their prey an’ rip it apart -
Preferring the budding an’ the hapless
That’s how they are; ferocious!
The resolute African wild dogs:
Heartless an’ inexorable, though
Oft their kill in no time they devour whole
Or a hunk excruciatingly torn off alive
Such ruthlessly merciless, so they are!
The cold-heart’d African wild dogs:
A time pinn’d down with an ample boulder
Or other piece with an equally sound weight
For now, the frenzy snappings an’ snarling
Render fleeting peace in the mottled hearts of theirs
Devouring an’ feasting like they do
On the now putrefying sworn enemy!
Those who are afraid to appear foolish,
Usually stay out of the limelight,
And seldom take to the field,
Preferring to stay on the side-line and boo,
Or join the hecklers in the audience.
Waiting in vain for the right time,
When they will not look quite so foolish,
Which is usually never.
Are we not exasperating the situation for them?
By providing ever increasing opportunities,
Not just for them to stay out of the limelight,
And to opt out of the game,
But to opt out of life itself.
Is it not about time we told them?
That on or off stage,
In or out of the game,
None of us ever get to completely opt out,
Of playing the fool.
THOSE WHO CLAP IN OPPOSITION
AND APPLAUD THOSE I DESPISE
THEY PARTNERSHIP AND AGREEMENT
THEIR CLEVER AND DANKY DESQUISE
MINDFUL OF A FUTURE
CONTRASTING AND ENGAGING THINGS
COLLABORATIONS FOR TOGETHERNESS
WHEN PREPARED EYES SEE'S LEARNED PRACTICES
THEY SPEAK IN SEEMING CAUSE
THEY WISHED THAT IT'S
OPPOSITION
WOULD CALM THOSE WHO WORKED-OUT THEIR FLAWS
EVER SO UNCERTAIN
CREDIBLE IN OPPOSITION
DIRECTIONS GUIDED BY AMIRATION
TO DRUM-UP A NEW POSITION
HECKLERS SPEAK
THEIR MOUTHS SPIT DISTASTE
THE BOO AND JEER
WHILE DRINKING THEIR BEER
THEY ADMINISTER REFRASE
THEY SPEAK THESE WORDS IN FORM
THEY SHOW TO A WORLD IN JESTURE
Beware the bullies and the hecklers
for I am in need of material.
It is a need born of worse than you,
a need born from much greater than want.
Stand aside those that would love me
to see me suffer down the track.
For I can immortalise you for what you truly are,
and you shall be recognised whilst nameless.
You make hurl your sticks,
you may sling your stones,
but your names will always hurt me,
and I will reflect that pain toward you.
I am a real man, I show my feelings,
and I feel deeper than you know.
Deeper than you could ever feel
unless you have a place in prose.
Words can paint a thousand pictures
but will provide no frame.
If you want to hurt me
I am ready for that game.
things to remember
things to forget
that's what she couldn't
get out of her head
smashing her skull
attempting to cull
the murder of hecklers
their million black feathers
slicing her soul to shreds
Even as a seasoned, no, jaded,
pub folksinger,
he still feels quite queasy about
night crowd temper;
at times he's sincerely booed or
jokingly applauded;
in either case he knows he's
actually insulted.
He doesn't seem to mind the sham fame
with its true ache;
though he's on a losing streak, he still
hopes for a break;
he's weirdly grateful for sober jeers
and drunken cheers
from jolly hecklers and teasing pranksters
quaffing beers!
still feels queasy about crowd temper
even as a jaded, seasoned pub singer,
sincerely booed or jokingly applauded,
either statement hurts, cruelly loaded;
feeling like a winner on a losing streak,
liking the feel of fleeting fame, its ache,
grateful for sober jeers, drunken cheers,
jolly hecklers and cheerers quaffing beers!
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