Baseball Gang

Sunday at the Softball Park
Swarthy men speak a foreign lingo,
Whacking the ball 300 feet
I feel like a puny gringo.

Gang-members, maybe
Just a way they look,
Tail-gate barbecues
A first-baseman fry cook,
Waiting around
For the current game to finish,
Not a single one of these guys
Is anywhere thinnish.

But, they can whack that softball
All the way out to Howe,
That’s a home-run and then some
And now it’s time for some chow.

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