The Dream Of The Stadium Peanut Salesman
A buy and a sell and a few more hours of hell.
My toss is a pitch, a heater, a curveball, or maybe a switch.
The scent of cut grass is like a drug in my nose, better than any rose, any prose, any chemical dose.
But oh, to be a player, to meet ball with bat and be its slayer. Every day of my life, this is my silent prayer.
Running the base, grand slamming the game in the face of those who would keep me in place.
I may work for peanuts but that’s only my bread, it’s something to do to keep hungry mouths fed, every day of my life, ever day till I’m dead.
Maybe I’ll play ball in heaven’s arena, after God sends me that final subpoena.