It's patent, though they may be bats,
They certainly have balls,
And when they kill, they get congrats,
However much it galls.
The killers that are serial
Would never harm a fly,
But own, in tones imperial,
They pop some, when they try.
We're struck with awe that they could play
Their game without folks fearing,
With fans, who when these killers flay
Their foes, respond with cheering.
The killers that are serial
Are never called to court
On charges magisterial,
Like others of their sort.
For when they slay, no victims die:
That's not the case at all --
As you'll discover at the cry
That marshals them: "Play ball!"
Originally published in SUL News Notes, July 9, 1993.
c 1993, 1995 Fleabonnet Press for the author.