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To: JustAmy
Game Six

Here within this holy ground
the ace ascends the hallowed mound.

The slugger comes to stand his ground
amidst the roar and might sound.

He steps inside the sacred box
where mighty men have beat the Sox.

Batter up! The pitch is fast:
the tension builds; it cannot last.

The fans are nuts; the air is thick,
and Satan comes to play his trick.

Swing-swing-swing, and swing some more,
but nothing can settle the ancient score.

The slugger swings; the side's retired:
Holy God! The pitcher's wild!

Batter up – knock em down:
Batter up – mow em down!

Blood on the moon; blood on the face:
the wrong heroes are rounding the base!

If life is such a baseball game,
then who the hell we gonna blame?

Errors come and runners go:
how the hell we s'pposed to know?

Garbage in; garbage out:
is that what life is all about?

Tears of joy, tears of sorrow:
here today; gone tomorrow.

Shouts of glee, cries of pain:
soft the snow; hard the rain.

Words of peace; winds of war:
holy bride; vile whore.

Songs of life; songs of death:
filled, the lungs; gone, the breath.

Eyes of love; knives of hate:
grab the chance; gone, too late.

Streams of blue; rivers red:
summer's day; a dream is dead.

Hearts of gold, plans for evil:
chuckles of God; jeers of Devil.

The lover's kiss; the liar's twist:
Jesus Christ, or is it Judas?

Drops of mercy; torrents of rage:
open the book; burn the page.

Batter up! – end your inning:
keep repenting or lose your winnings.

Then, do we enter the extra innings?
And what of all those extra sinnings!

The winners lose; the losers win:
and we are stuck on base with sin!

The seasons come; the season's go:
and we are Michelangelo.

Back in the box, the batter's up
who can drink this bitter cup?

Back in the box, the inning is nine:
shit outta luck, and shit outta time.

The batter's up! The game— it's over!
The Irish are stunned: where is the clover?

New York, New York, a helluva town:
but finally the curse, it comes around.

Start the party; finish the races:
fifty cheers; twenty paces.

Mexican beans; Soviet faces:
full, the glasses; empty, the bases.

The Enemy sings; the gods are tired:
the enemy drinks; the manager's fired.

666: the mark of the Beast;
1-2-3: the sound of defeat.

The Devil comes, disguised as man:
he comes to rout the bookies plan.

He plays his cards: a rookie's hand –
but has it changed the Sovereign's plan?

Trounced in six; robbed of seven.
Game six: hell— can there be heaven?


96 posted on 10/26/2003 6:58:33 AM PST by LibertyBelt (Yankee Fan on a Sunday Morn)
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To: LibertyBelt


I know for a Yankee fan, this cannot be a very good morning but,
at least you got to game six.
For us Giant fans, it can only be Maybe Next Year!

Thanks for sharing your poem with us this morning. Hope you return often.

97 posted on 10/26/2003 7:16:39 AM PST by JustAmy (Prayers for Jacquelyn, 7 year old with leukemia. Prayers for Sydney Dungan, 2 yr old with cancer.)
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