Blame me. Blame history.
Or blame yourself if life lies
foul and love's a mystery
(foul play!) we half realize
through our fingers in the dark—
like those leather-hard, hand-sewn
balls of flesh which symbolize
your sex. To each his own.
Now give me your hand—and glove.
Let me show you a softer mound,
greener fields empty with love,
a lighter stick to swing around.
You started this game in the first place,
bragging how you'd gotten to first base.
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