One sees, from the beginning,
     where this book
is going: life’s a game
     and nothing but,
so grab your (corked) bat

and swing for the fences,
     round the bases
while waving at the round-mouthed
     faces, touch home
and know, no matter what,

your score won’t matter more
     than the post-game
party’s post-party lull, the boring
     stars not half
so engrossing as the last

tumbler of rum. The real
     flub when you
claim none of this is
     fair is thinking
fair is something to think:

that benchmark was never there—
     no league rules,
no umpire: only palace intrigue
     during the final
years of a pointless empire.