You mustn’t forget the agony
plastered on willows
in the springtime revolution we call
The Footie Pajama Crocus Hauntings;

all suppositions lay ahead,
flagstones for tiptoeing meekly
through the mire of insipid boredom
and emerging relatively unscathed,

the only damage sustained
from a choked-up bat to the sternum,
enough to inspire song lyrics
lamenting the human condition.