Our Game or The Other Game
Our Game or The Other Game Walking down a rural lane, I saw him play, That little agile fellow, of his childhood day Oh! He played the game of my say Amusing himself with Hockey on a holiday The young guy less than fourth of my age Came rolling down seemingly blessed by a sage Delivered a thundering piece of plastic Was almost round ‘not a ball’ that’s drastic A lump of wood, the shape of a hooked bat The sun was strong but the guy lacked a hat He swung the piece with immense desire Appreciated proudly by his spectator sire The place was a plot of barren land Full of dead weed and braising hot sand Young fellow sans hat, with the unshaved wood With torn slippers, he had bruises under his hood My heart went throbbing at the unusual sight A sight so common yet unnoticed, right? He continued to play without any pain, But my hands were trembling, I wasn’t insane! Reckoning with them was what I felt With deep enough breath and tig
