by Earl J. Wilcox
It’s not just the glitzy stadium,
The venues where you can buy
Dogs and diamonds (I hear),
Nor is it those plush, wide
Seats fit for the fat asses of
The fat cats who can pay the
Prices to see the Yanks lose
Yet another pennant.
It’s the rape of the game.
Violating the given axiom
That baseball is America ’s
Game, our pastime, our game
To see and play, even when
We don’t have money for bread
And milk. Stick it to the fans,
Ram it in their faces, jab and jab
Them until the give in, pay money
They don’t even own to watch
Jeter & Co. romp around, preen
Like they have just unloaded a
Package on the baseball world.
Out in the countryside, the Cards
And Reds and Pirates play on like
Country cousins, hitting the
Ball, running the bases, doing the
7th inning stretch to "Take Me Out
to the Ballgame" instead of a
Diva doing an aria from Aida, or
Pitiful fans looking disappointed
At not finding lottery tickets in their
Boxes of Crackerjacks.
Earl J. Wilcox writes about aging, baseball, literary icons, politics, and southern culture. His work appears in more than two dozen journals; he is a regular contributor to The New Verse News. More of Earl's poetry appears at his blog, Writing by Earl.
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