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The Home Run At Bat MAG
My last at bat of the year,
It has to be good,
A lucky stroke of the tar rag,
Secures my wood.
Get a comfortable grip,
My cleats dig through the dirt.
The pitch has to be waist high,
Or at the letters on my shirt.
The pitch is delivered,
Like a bolt from Zeus,
My arm muscles tighten,
and my power breaks loose.
A crack of the bat,
I hit the pitch,
And saw the cover drop in front of me,
The ball: stripped and unstitched.
I put my head down,
and with my might, start to run,
My coach yelled, "STOP!!!"
But would for none.
"Maybe a home run!" is what I reckon.
My foot touches first,
I blaze toward second.
As I look at the crowd,
Touch home plate, and grab a towel,
My coach gently whispers, handing me my bat,
"It was a foul."
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