by Millie Bovich
No bats, no balls, no umpire calls.
No runs, no hits, no Bud or Schlitz.
No fans, no stands, no bleacher tans.
No cheers, no jeers, no loser tears.
No drinks, no jinks, no fun, methinks.
No flies, no ties, no alibis.
No lights, no fights, no family nights.
No slides, no chides, no rule abides.
No shouts, no pouts, no fly ball outs.
No fuss, no muss, no catch the bus.
No time to stretch, no shoestring catch, no drink to fetch.
No batter up, no spill the cup, no boos erupt.
No hit to first, no quench my thirst, no rainstorm burst.
No dusty slide, no two collide, no place to hide.
No pitch too low, no triple blow, no place to go.
No organ sounds, no pitchers’ mounds, no homer rounds.
No op’ning day, no play-by-play, just “What the hey?”
No talks on tap, we sit and flap, who takes the rap?
No catcher cues, baseball we choose, fans sing the blues.
No season start, that isn’t smart, it breaks my heart!