Tyson’s Balls

Tyson has many balls…
Now I know what you’re thinking,
But that’s just your teenage inkling.
Some were blue, some were yellow and some were red.
Most of them could be found under a bed.
Some rolled away into places,
Out of his reach and no traces.
But an army at his beck and call,
Meant that Tyson always had a ball.

Tyson has many balls…
Now I know that he can play with just one,
But don’t bother telling him, he’s having too much fun.
Some belonged to the boys who played cricket,
The other to the maid who might just flick it.
But Tyson did not care about the modern construct of belonging,
Every sphere was his subject of longing.

Tyson has many balls…
Now I know that he can neither bowl nor kick,
But I wouldn’t try making that logic stick.
Once a ball is lodged in his jaw,
Good luck getting it in your paw.
He jumps, he claws, he moves faster than greased lightning,
Once the ball is in his grasp, don’t bother fighting.

Tyson has many balls…
But the one ball he wants every single time,
Is the ball in your hand or mine.