(with apologies to that old-time baseball fan, Robert Frost) Whose fields these are I think I know.
They've all gone home in anger, though;
They will not see us stopping here
To watch their fields while they no-show.
The little kids must think it queer
To end without the Series near,
And know not what old records break
In this stupendous hitting year.
They give their parents' arms a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound's the sweep
Of falling leaves and fan-tailed rake.
The baseball people's greed is deep.
They see no promises to keep,
And in that arrogance they sleep
While Jackie and the Babe do weep.