The outlook is dismal for Walt Disney Jones today:
two strikes and three balls, I doubt he makes the play.
Divya clings to hope: If only he could get a whack at
that—
It’s do or die for my Swing at bat.
All eyes on Walt as he digs his hands in dirt;
two tongues holler when he wipes them on his shirt;
and now the pitcher launches a nightmare
and Baby “Swing” Bonds misses everything but air.
“Strike one!” the umpire roars.
With a sneer, Walt assures he’s got something in store.
The second Mercury moon comes spinning through;
he swings . . . and the umpire yells, “Strike two!”
The smile is gone from Walt’s lip;
upon his cocky shoulder, a chip.
And now the pitcher winds for the throw;
and now the air is crushed by my best friend’s blow.
Oh, somewhere jazz is playing, and love is in full flight.
And in this tiny town, a flag is flying bright.
And somewhere men are fighting, living in combat.
But there is joy today at Westside—because Walt’s at bat.