By Dean Weflen
O give us a home
Where no buffalo roam
Under tarp by the baggie we play,
Where echos are heard
While Punto’s at third,
And at first hear JM say, “Eh.”
Dome, Dome for the deranged,
Why ever play baseball outside?
Fly balls disappear,
and hit speakers we fear.
Those carpet burns sure hurt when you slide.
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