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by Ben Cyr
As the orange sphere lies there majestically in your hands.
You're encircled by the scent of overworked glands.
Beaded with sweat, it slowly spins on your fingertips.
And looking at the ball, you kiss it with your lips.
The coach had told you, "Son, we're down thirty, have a blast."
And oh, how this fun should last!
Feeling the ball, you begin to smile.
Hopefully, you'll be left in for a while.
You gaze through the crowd, screaming, crazy.
Your vision blurs, and begins to become hazy.
And when you begin to laugh, a voice out of nowhere does yell
"Dang it, kid! Dribble! We've already been sent halfway to hell!"
As you hear these words a horn blares. The shot clock has expired.
The seconds tick away. All of this time you've desired
has vanished, right before your eyes.
And then, not to your suprise,
a spiritual feeling begins to arise.
With the coach cussing you out and the crowd put to shame,
You laugh, the game is just a game.
"Pine-time Boy" Copyright © Ben Cyr
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Last updated September 27, 1999