Colyne Stewart, Sep AS 38 (2003)
Four people stand upon the grass
And gaze upon the can of trash,
the white jake sparkles by the tin--
the one that all the trash is in.
The don, he stands in dinner coat,
his beard as manly as a goat's,
his tails flapping in the wind,
his knees bared bright above his shins.
In his hands are balls of green,
his eyes contracted, hard and mean,
he contemplates the weight and lay
of other balls laid in his way.
A burly arm is brought far back,
Hairy knuckles on the ball's hide crack,
Then like an ape upon the mound,
he rolls his sphere along the ground.
It leaps past foes and o’er the ditch
that makes the course into a bitch,
stops right beside the jake to rest
and we know the baron's balls are best.