Thursday, December 31, 1998
As I glance through the paper, sports section first,
my eyes finally rest on what quenched my thirst.
My face, it did beam like a child with a new toy,
all my favorite teams, I shout with joy.
The wife, she argues for no reason,
as she sings the blues I thought, tough, 'tis the season.
With tears in her eyes and looking bleak
she whispers goodbye and kissed my cheek.
She acts so frail, she even whines
but to no avail, it's third and nine.
It's game after game as the season goes on,
she feels so ashamed, how I act on third and one.
She feels as a cleft but full of perseverance,
as I yell at the ref, hey! that's interference.
As the season nears a close and my mind comes to life,
she wrinkles her nose and says guess who, it's your...
But before the words can leave her lips, she knows she's hit a wall,
for as I watch from where I sit, I say "what's this, roundball?"
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