Monday, August 3, 2020

Shakespeare On Baseball's Declining Health (Going, Going, Gone?)

Oh enemy most foul
For it be not fair that this sickness runs with abandon between these lines
How did this strike not one, not two but strike three
Out, out the cry piercing the air
And yet this disease steals our very breath
As we lay caught in its web
No safety found at home
Our protest in vain, our cry's bootless, a deaf ear turned to our fervent appeals
For if this be not a blow most mortal, it is nigh upon us
We are but walking shadow
Death waiting with grave intent at the top step
Our nation's heartbeat near extinguished
Fear rampant that the games we play today 
Will in all the tomorrow's to come be going, going gone

1 comment:

Unknown said...

'Twas the night last I dreamt
The cheers faint yet familiar
A raucous noise in my head
Three little words seeding a world of change
"The Yankees win! Theeeee Yankees win!"
Was it but a dream?