Alarm it out: Synergy, Wineman.

Call it out with callow rage

for glory: The Cards' ace is our

homeboy. Glory, better

 

face it. Let the Mets'

team fail anew. One selfsame crock

of callow; the canyons

held my sway once

 

too. what

a shit drunk poem.

9/11 is a cheap card

to

 

pull in the face

of baseball;

in the face of a

very slimly read slice of Internet written while drunk

 

saddest thing is

the Mets look like

they're gonna pull

it out and force game 7

 

But fuck it. As always,

anything could happen.

All this poem is really about is hope,

thinking about the past,

 

pipe dreams,

useful rage,

wishing beggars.

And of course their horses