The Game

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The fresh cut grass/
is as thin as a sheet of glass./
Stands conquer a wave/
on what they crave./
A player out dukes the defense/
to make the match more intense./
Excitement runs down the field/
to keep one's eye peeled./
To what happens to knowing/
as the whistle is blowing./
To end the game,/
To Fame!





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Terd_Ferguson said...
Apr. 3, 2009 at 5:34 pm
I like the poem, but I don't understand why every line ends with a "./".
 
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