He let go of his prizes
Two Cy Youngs and two Gold Gloves
He didn’t need them any more
I wonder if he ever did

From his seat in the press box
He’d watched so many young arms
Win the same shining trophies
Then piss their lives away
Unlike the followers of Moses
No gold dribbled on the ground
But other chemicals surely did

He wouldn’t grasp the artifacts
When he cherished so much more
His memories of those summer afternoons
Determined faces stared him down
Out on his little royal hill
Yet they never looked the same
After he showed them the heat