by Sheila Bernstein
“Peanuts, popcorn, cold beer,”
Shouts the voice of the vendor.
Of course, we’re at the ballpark
In all of its splendor.
It’s the crack of the bat,
The spit of the pitcher — well, sure, you get the picture.
Root for the home team.
It’s a shame if they lose.
What the heck, I’m tanked up on booze!
Baseball…there’s nothing to match.
Where am I now?
Wrigley Field, natch!
Published in Ballparks, Chicago Cubs, Chicago Cubs, Fans, Pure doggerel | Link to this poem | No Comments