Age-old Southern faces,
tight-lipped and grim,
in their batting helmets,
their chins tucked in,
raise their steel barrels
and dig in again.
Remnants of their ancestry,
descendants of their kin,
that stared down steel barrels
and charged again,
knowing that their chances
to survive were slim.
The batteries of the enemy
are usually going to win.
Spitball: The Literary Baseball Magazine
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