Hits

The bold prospector on the mount

     Amongst the rocks and grit,

Digs day and night with all his might,

     And tries to make a hit.

The politician on the stump,

     The boxer with the mitt,

All sally out with purpose stout

     To try to make a hit.

From president to office boy,

     From king to humble slave,

All through their lives of varied drives,

     Till mastered by the grave.

They start each day with purpose fair,

     And hope ere day has quit,

That they will make a bullseye,

     That they will make a hit.

The humble poet lean and long

     Up in his attic dark,

He too, each day is in the fray,

     He tries to hit the mark.

And so the so-called funny man,

Who throws a humor fit,

 He too essays in many ways

     To make a laughing hit.

Alas! The days they come and go,

     Some hit the bullseye near;

And some go wide, far to the side

     And never more appear.

We swing and swing day after day

     To give the old sphere fits

But fate she throws her glancing blows,

     We make more fouls than hits.

Oct. 16, ‘10