( - )

As if driven by dread of obvliousness (into
hints and lands of scotch arcana), we
clung to the stinging and byzantine rhetoric of
Mets fans, bounteously heckling
that which would go fair instead
of foul, foul instead of fair,
advancing the much hoped for
plot line of a Sunday afternoon
in the bleachers, in the sun, and, yes,
in America but not
the "triumph of Americana."