(if you are the first to follow this blog, you'll notice that this is only my second poem, other than the rap, that uses punctuation. Baseball predates e e cummings, to whom I owe the realization that the words must stand on their own merit, so I abandon the unconventional convention here. Also, whenever the Yankee$ are referenced, all "s"es, including in the word "suck", are $la$hed.)
A child, ball in hand,
Waits for a hero to emerge,
The smell of sawdust and tobacco
Fresh on hands larger than a
Little League catcher's mitt.
Betrayed, he mourns
As his own child consoles him,
"Daddy, they're just in it for the money."
Scourge of youth!
Grievous void of childhood dreams,
$ucked and ever $ucking,
Long after the last breath of pure hope
Di$appear$ in your maw.
$tealing $andlot $ummer$
San Antonio, Pittsburgh, Kansas City,
Detroit, Cleveland, now Philly -
Henry Hud$on, you can't have it!
The mounting mi$ery your billion$ bring
To a world acro$$ your $tinking, fetid water
Fails to quench the unquenchable
Inferno blazing white hot in the hearts
Of fans, who pawn the dreams of youth
To pay for your parade!