Good evening my good friends! A quick tip of the kippah to you one and all! Aha! Friday has indeed arrived and boy am I glad for that! It's the third week of July already! So here it comes, our loving gentle friend, Mr. Capper has come upon request who will bring up straight into a wonderful weekend again. Keep Israel in your thoughts. And now, yes you guessed it! It's absolutely brand-spanking new poem-time! Remember dear readers, please tell someone you love them and always-always-always-always enjoy!7th Inning Stench (For Babe Ruth, Hank Aaron & Steriods Bonds)
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 black shadow is cast
Into stone, 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
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