I took me out to a ball game,
Alas, to one with a crowd.
There they sold peanuts and alcohol
‘Cause Cracker Jack’s racist and traditional.
There I learned baseball tactics
And how to play the game right
From a screaming drunk woman
Who looked like a dark alley at night.
“Hit the ball!” Was her opener.
“Throw a strike” later came.
Then was “Make people stop not getting out
“And you’ll win the whole (censored) game!”
It turns out this lady’s cheerleading
Did lead the home team to win
So if you’re still an Orioles fan
Bud Light’s a good place to begin.
There’s an argument in the USA
About soccer teams and equal pay
‘Cause men got paid more overall
Despite the women winning all the way.
The other side of this tirade
Says the male players are underpaid
Because the revenue their team produced
Was 55 times more than the women’s team made.
Now how revenue or standings weigh
On the importance scale I can’t say.
The real question is, in 2019,
Why won’t this stupid sport just go away?
In 1920 some guy said
“A thought just poppethed into mine head.”
His peer responded “Tell me sir,
“What thought does cause thine brain to stir?”
Some guy then said, in a manner quite prickly,
“What if I had a box that heated food quickly?”
His peer replied “Your thought is bold,
“But how about heating the plate and leaving the food cold?”
I hope somewhere there is a bat
Who’s terrified of men
Who flew off to train with ninjas
And (insert syllables here) then
He became a vigilante
Fighting crime and stuff like that.
He holes up in his man cave
Because he’s called Manbat.
He wears a man-shaped costume
With a cape that’s shaped like fat.
The drives his manmobile badly
Because he is a bat.
I want this very badly
Mostly ’cause of the “man cave” pun.
His sidekick is called Flamingo
And yes, this poem is done.
Writing lousy poems
Is really not that hard.
It doesn’t take a lot of work
To be a blogging bard.
The only bit that’s difficult
Is deciding what to write,
Thus my meta-poetry
At 10 o’clock at night.
Once again I find myself
Besot by evening’s chill,
No longer in possession of
The time I had to kill.
My mind fixates upon the task
I’ve thus far left undone:
I swore I’d write a poem a day
And yet have written none.
Thus I lie upon my bed
Writing where I am now,
Stating the truth about my life
As syllables allow.
Now comes the peril of present-tense:
I write that I’m writing,
Now I reread the previous line
To see if it’s exciting.
I also find, where once I wrote
Six syllables then eight,
My meter has forsaken me
By virtue of it’s late.
Thus endeth my desperate foray
To create relevant verse.
To all reading I bid good night!
(Poetry is a curse).