Brewers 6, Phillies 2: Jesse Biddle's No-Hit Effort Lost in a Waste Land [A Hyper-Link'd Poetic Recap]

August is a pretty cruel month too,

When you're losing in a season of ripe peaches and red tomatoes,
and silken corn, busting with just-picked sugars shugged:
The blueberries too, despite coming early this hot summer,
still don't suck. In this time for festivals of indulgence
I remember how our ethnicities and habits tasted so much better
when we felt like we were kicking other people's asses.

But Lord, I hope Jesse Biddle is getting laid tonight
somewhere among Clearwater's swamps and umbrella drinks.
He may be a distant gleam in our mound's eye,
Dogtown's finest, pick of the litter, God bless the young man,
Because I've been reading much of the night,
thinking about going south for the winter,
because I can't get it up like the other guys, their sausage parties
a meaningless race of wurst cases and spicy chorizos.

So during the day I sweat it out and watch green shoots become dried-out hustings.
The torpor of this crotch-sweaty summer of seersucky Big Daddies
leaves me in a an anesthetic haze, longing for cool weather and lower expenses,
as these fragments have shored against my ruins.