Grand Slammer Poem by Alan Bruce Thompson

TipTap 25 times with the ball before I serve,
The audience should be thrilled - it's more than they deserve.

I prance and dance in my glorious designer suit,
Subsidized by you as you buy one with your loot.

You may adore me as I sway, as I destroy my prey.
You don't see wear-down tactics like mine everyday.

I smash the ball over the net at 1000 miles per hour,
I aim at my opponent's face just to make him sour.

The days of playing tennis like gentlemen is long gone,
I terrorize the loser until its clear that I've won.

That shrieking and grunting when I deliver the ball,
Is the sound of this victor with my intimidating call.

When I'm losing, I pout, and stamp my feet on the ground,
My racket lies smashed. I did not make that sound!

The umpires and opponents are pathetic little fools,
They are regarded as ball fodder in my training schools.

After I've secured the win with inhuman aggression,
I thrust my nose in the air to assure the imperial succession.

It's only four times a year they can see me down from heaven,
Otherwise they must watch the peons lose six games from seven.

My next attack will be to pull the umpire from her chair,
Or throw my racket at her morally high disarming stare.

What a ten second grunt-free serve? I can't cope!
To behave like a civilized player was never my hope.

What do you mean 'I've been sentenced by the ATP'?
They threaten the Grand Slammer for Me, the Almighty!

To retire quietly like a gent was not my plan to be,
Rather a noisy outspoken TV- commentator role for me!