Four towers in the corners
Of eight-hundred and eighty square feet
Separated by a net
And a ray of Summer’s heat.
One let fly a bullet
And their counterpart stepped back,
Eyed the bouncing projectile,
Then gave a hearty thwack.
And so the ball of fire
Soared between the warriors four
Until finally to out of bounds
Their common goal did soar.
“A point for us!” The victors cried
As fell the reaper’s sickle
Upon the party who had lost
The game of ball and pickle…
The Daily Travesty 