These are my trees
They have likened to me since I was a boy
They can call the score of any of my games
They know all my favourite hitters and pitchers
As I wind up
They whisper the count,
Now the game is in the late stages
One minute they are calm, still,
The next they roar, with a likeness of a crowd
And they build pressure too
For when the game is really Hard and I want to Win For real
They clamour to get back
And dinner will be ready,
So I wave up at them, like I am some famous fielder,
and sign off
They are my technology, link to sanity
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