Upon Manhattan’s green and storied ground,
Where lofty elms and stately maples rise,
Ambition gathers, clad in weekend round,
‘Neath bustling walks and towers that scrape the skies.
Hoops stand at guard upon the emerald span,
While taxicabs and distant wheels resound.
Each player eyes their rival, plots their plan—
Pride stirs the heart, and pastimes newfound ground.
Bright balls await the mallet’s careful hand;
A hush—ignore the city’s siren call.
“Line up thy shot”—let patience now command;
Straight gaze, and tarry not nor rush at all.
Take time to judge each subtle hill and slope,
Let steady rhythm guide thy measured swing;
The follow-through—here lies both art and hope,
In tempered strokes, let quiet judgement spring.
The crowd may swarm, but let thy calm abide,
For wisdom’s in each practice, each delay.
Pride and companionship walk side by side,
And in fair croquet, both rule the day.
Here, runners clash where children’s laughter rings;
Elms whisper wisdom, city winks askew—
A game of grace, where patient striving brings
A proper triumph to the bold and true.
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