The hurler stands atop his dirt mound
His mind barely blocking every little sound.
His challenger rises and steps to oppose
While the hurler accepts and heavily throws.
He hurls that leathery stone of his
Hoping the swinger to swing and miss.
It curves, it breaks, it slithers away
Only for it to be broken in the light of summer’s day.
The ball leaves no longer to be in sight
While the hurler’s arm loses all of its might.
Mistake and mistake repeated kills the rates
It’s time for a changeup, so declares the Fates.
And so the once mighty hurler begins to descend
To the bullpen where he’ll never escape again.
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