A Brutal Battle of America's Pastime
Going to war armed with a metal pole,
A stiff breeze cuts the summer air.
Becoming safe is the primary goal,
And the chattering and cheering begin to blare.
I stop to turn and face my enemy,
He stares me down, ready to battle.
I can only imagine what lies ahead of me,
But I'm tough, so I know I won't rattle.
The first shot is fired, the battle's begun,
And the shot comes close, but misses its spot.
It may have come close, but I will not run,
I dig back in and wait for the next shot.
Wind kicks up the rust colored dirt,
As a next shot, colored white, is coming near.
So I deflect the shot away, without being hurt,
Then dig back in again, feeling no fear.
A third shot is fired in the ferocious fight,
And as this next shot closes on in,
I focus and swing with all my might,
Knowing this is a battle I will win.
I smack the shot long and far,
This will be my moment of fame.
The shot clears the fence and hits a car,
And I know my homerun has won the game.
Copyright © Matthew Frazier | Year Posted 2014
|