Though This Be March, Yet There Is Madness In't

They're big and bad and tough (and tall),
They bounce an orange and stripéd ball;
They dance in shorts and sneaks and socks,
With steps choreographed by jocks.
A hoop of steel protrudes from glass;
Beneath it hangs some woven grass.

They're big and bad and tall (and tough),
They bounce a ball and play quite rough:
They push and shove and trip and hit
(But so the ref won't notice it),
And all the while they just pretend
They'll dance with you and be your friend—
Till suddenly, before you know it,
They take that stripéd ball and throw it
To someone wearing their same hue—
They're selfish: they won't share with you.

They're bad and tall and tough (and big),
They dance an orange and stripéd jig.
That hoop of steel with grass below
Ain't hangin' there, you find, for show,
Cuz ev'ry less-than-half-a-minute,
They try to put the ball right in it:
They do a quick step, leave you there,
And then go flying through the air.
(Of course, the ball goes swishing through it—
The dolt who wove that basket blew it.)

They're big and tough and tall (and bad)
In this orange-stripéd Marchiad;
When mercifully the clock shows zeros,
At last the tourney crowns its heroes.
And that is my impartial scoop
On big and bad and ball and hoop.

                           —O. Nonymous

                                                                 © 2002