Before the threat 
And dismal cold gray 
of mourning 
Came the sun. 

And Charlie Comiskey 
should've turned in his sleep 
should've turned in his sleep 
shoud've turned? 

Insane Sun 
Floating above the earth 
Like some extravagant madman 
Spending next year's allowance. 

The same burning sun 
In the same afternoons 
In all the cities 
East 
and somewhat 
West 
of the 
Great Mississippi. 

should've turned in his sleep 

Too many 
Suns 
In too many 
Cities 
Too many faces 
Faces 
in the face of it 
All. 

How much grief? 
Too 
Much 
Grief. 
Too many faces 
Too many suns 
Far too many of too many things 
Far too many of too many things. 

should've turned in his sleep 

More like Dali, 
less Victoria. 
The playing field becomes a landscape 
Fixed and isolated and trapped 
Between the borders of its own fabrication. 

The stadium faces 
Blur 
in the afternoon sun. 
The celebration 
Ends 
in the afternoon sun 
The victory becomes 
Defeat 
in the afternoon sun. 

Morality 
Victoria Escaped 
Insane sun. 

How many of how many things. 

The death of honor 
The end of a fading 
And final trust. 

should've turned in his sleep 

And as 
The unsettling dust 
Settles in the throat of all men 
There are not enough beers 
In all the bars 
In all the world 
To flush out the stale bitterness 
Of too many afternoons 
In too many suns. 

And Charlie Comiskey 
woke up 
and deposited the nightmare 
in the pillow of his dream.