The Count-Three And Two Poem by Alexander Beebe

His eyes they pierce the coming storm.
Ferocious volley, he orbits the mound.
Releasing wrath upon the slayer.
The object sought-he prays not found.

The slayers eyes like bird of prey.
His sights are gazed upon his foe.
His battle club is raised up high.
The prize he seeks he must control.

With white tipped knuckles his prey released.
Momentum gaining his pulse increased.
The slayer makes his final swing.
Erupting bat, his prey he stings.

The warriors dance he does make,
Around his foe who bows and quakes.
This battle won but not the war.
Next time at bat, STRIKE THREE! no score.