You want a war? We'll give you one.
Team crossed fire eyed boys
a man to a head, wringing bat grips like i.o.u. express
tickets to hell, mound to plate and back.
You come to our town and expect us
to lay down? No sir. No sir.
Bring your swords, we're bringing polished barking birds,
sights level, barrels still stinking of cleaning fluid.
Leave your keys in your cars
you'll need them soon,
we booked our field through evening, but
we'll punch your card by mid afternoon.
End of the season takes me back
to January BP, and learning how
like, fuck what was that?
Slow deuces, sliders, two seam heat.
Four seamers and dug out dust ups,
all of it restraint.
Worship, worship, pray to the gods, touching grass
and sand and sod and brim and belt and junk and spit.
High sun, night lights, pine tar and pure grit.
For the batters box and left hand gloved, all our violence saved.
Here, at home, the team we've grown is where we make our names.
Here, at home, cleats kicking plates is where our souls go bathe.
Here, at home, here, at home is where we flaunt our manes.
