by James Finn Garner
Here’s to the ballhawks, that steadfast elite
Who feel that they’re owed for buying a seat,
Who’ll knock over kids to nab a home run
And hold the ball ransom til somebody comes
Through with free tickets, signed jerseys and swag
To reward them for making their glorious snag.
“A rookie’s first homer?” says a ballhawk with glee.
“Why should I give him the ball back for free?”
These guys deserve something for their tireless work
As parasites, blowhards and self-obsessed jerks.
When their daughters get married, let’s crash the affair,
Charge tolls for the toilets, rent them each chair,
And push over bridesmaids when the bouquet is tossed,
Then take bids to find which girl wants it most.
Published in Ballparks, Fans, James Finn Garner, Pure doggerel, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | No Comments