Oh, I was hit by surly Bonds at bat
and danced the skies on tarnished silvered wings.
Sunward I climbed (a much-sought baseball stat),
beyond the wall. A record-breaking thing
of which I long had dreamed. To be that privileged ball
whacked high in the sunlit silence amid fans' frenzied praise.
To be the orb Hank Aaron hoped would stall
and then perchance just melt from solar rays.
But how was I to know the reason why
I topped the windswept heights with easy grace
was rooted in deceit and covered lies?
My dreams for fame became nightmarish pain.
In spite of being claimed by Cooperstown,
my legacy will always be a shame.
The home run ball hit by the steroids clown.
A King Not Worthy of His Throne
The name is Bonds.
But it dawns on me
we don't know the agent
that services Mr. Bonds' secret.
Alas, Barry's claim
of home run fame
would best be buried
(or better yet forgotten).
In my book,
Aaron still reigns.
After all, he's the brother
worthy of attention.
Do I even need to mention
that steroids weren't a factor
in the game Henry played?
When Hank yanked a homer,
he spanked it with brute strength.
He made that little horsehide cry
as he lifted it over the fence.
In the land of the chemically free
and the home of the Braves,
Aaron belted his record number
of round trippers
in a manner worthy of a god.
How odd then that Bobby's son
is now being called the home run king.
He's merely a prince
whose crowning achievement
was getting juiced
without getting caught.