Roger Clemens
Lived on lies.
Raw deception,
Deft disguise.

Low balls rose.
Curves seemed straight.
Sliders away
Somehow found the plate.

Every nod was a feint.
Every look was a lure.
Everything evident
Designed to obscure.

Look for your pitch?
In your dreams!
Nothing he throws
Is quite what it seems.
Now Roger Clemens
Squirms in his seat,
Engaged in one
last grand deceit.

Six solemn men
Peer down from the dais,
In silence decipher
his verbal maze.

Will these graying opponents
In suits and ties
Succumb like rookies
To the pitchman’s lies?