7th Inning Stench

by Charles Bernstein

Last call for alcohol
Last call for your nation at bat
It was that last great league in Irish Town where he never forgets

The crack of the bat feels like the spit of his fame just blowin’ in the breeze
Like the crumbled skeleton staring at the door with its head between its knees

Old skeleton knows where it’s going, night after night after night
To wash its hands of curses, sins of the past 80 years, look in the mirror and cry

For it’s the soul of the league that’s on trial
No longer can a skeleton smile, just shake, like those pep pills and drugs and business that now sweeps it under the rug, while the GAT of the thug is shoved into the back of the big boss who pushes aside the integrity of the game for payoffs and thrills

The record is broken, the record is cast
The crowd doesn’t say much when the dark shadow is cast into stone or the graveyard in the hall
He cast the first shadow, so he did fall

The crowd remains silent
The crowd still remains

Old skeleton washes up in a sea of notoriety

Like the spit of his fame.

Posted 7/19/07


Published in History, Scandals | Link to this poem | No Comments

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