One Hundred
A real scorching, one hundred degrees,
July afternoons, no air, no breeze,
Summer heat and sizzling afternoons,
Dried up earth and orange colored moons,
Brown grasses and melancholy leaves,
Baking forests and weeping trees,
A futile supplication and still no rain,
A refreshing dream might ease the pain.
Mother Nature is a mean old lady,
But without the pain, who can feel joy?
One hundred miles per hour and moving,
High and tight, on the corner, pitcher’s grooving,
Two strike count, then change up off the plate,
Batter goes fishing too soon too late.
Velocity is scary, but location is paramount,
Mixing up pitches is essential in the count,
Hard throwers aren’t always good pitchers,
And good pitchers know when to throw hard.
One hundred minutes it took to sing a tune,
Pride suffered as praise came too soon.
Music is a laborious climb into the future
With knowledge and passion stuffed in a satchel.
Scales become colors and rudiments pleasure.
Anxiety is breaking free and going with leisure.
Music is a task that relies on dedication
To make a good sound and have fun in the singing.
