Stiff, rigid stance I hold.

Others in like fashion

casting unwavering attention

to those time-changing hands.

Fierce hiss, and my weapon

comes to my lips, I breathe.

I feel the turf below my feet,

and I relish in the moment.

This is my stage.

Four counts and I'm off,

stepping with precision rivaling

an intricate ballroom waltz,

For we are dancers.

Toes and heels rise to the sky,

proudly boasting to the jealous crowd.

We pant, we blow, we breathe, we play.

My weapon serenading like a singer.

We create: on level with a Roman God,

Jupiter's jealousy rains upon us,

Neptune's fury shakes beneath us,

Trying to undo my troupe as they trod.

It's over in seconds, yet a year has passed,

We receive little applause, yet babies are thrown,

Even if the moment itself can not last,

We, as a band, and as friends, have grown.

This field is my home.