It has been suggested to me that I compose an ode on the giant basketball which towers over Route 91 in Springfield like a temple. It is higher than any church steeple, its lawn greener than any park or golf course, its accompanying edifice cleaner and better maintained than any municipal building in the city of Springfield. What does that tell you?
Anyway, I don't need to compose an ode because faithful reader Christopher has done it for me. Here's the poem:
Ode on the Big Basketball
Towering over Springfield, Mass.
Big orange ball by the hall of fame,
That’s how we put lesser towns to shame,
Although the weather may be lame
Springfield ne’er forgets its game.
Athletes come and receive a plaque
And many a pat upon their back
Beneath thy orange glow: a fact
That leaves them marv’ling at our tact.
May you not be blown by winds. A lurch
Might knock you off your perch.
But then it wn’t be hard to search
We’ll find you ‘bove the flattened birch.
Of the elders please beware
They don’t like sports in underwear
And they might think it isn’t fair
To praise a orb just hung in air.
The very last stanz I think will keep
Because invention won’t come cheap,
And truly bad poems need not leap
To oblivion where memory sleeps.
"We'rt thou suspended from balloon,
You'd cast a shade even at noon,
Folks would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon."