The ball was bouncing on the floor,

But suddenly it fell down flat,

It lay down on the floor,

Like a dead rat.


To be like the ball,

With no rest,

Where all its surfaces are curved,

For better or for worse.


It goes into goals,

Winning championships,

Yet once the game is over,

It lays dusty in a corner.


It loses its shine,

And loses its glory,

Becomes useless.


The ball is only happy when it is taken out of its locker,

Passing from hand to hand,

Seemingly freely flying through the air,

But actually not so.


A game is controlled,

Can be rigged at that,

Has rules and regulations to boot,

A pain in the ass.


To be the ball,

Better not so,

Yet, what is the difference,

Between the ball and a human?