Proverbial

Tall, against the fake green grass With the metal club in his hand; He's a god Shrugging good naturedly At the fawning reporters, jostling at his elbow.. At home, it's business as usual: She's busy dying, in their bed Dark-ringed eyes more hollow Lost in a morphine torpor, unsure Where she is anymore Unsure of everything but the outcome He wishes now they hadn't told her The kids eyes, filled with pain The lawyers are circling again With the gold seekers close behind- Everyone wants a piece of him now He's the pot at the end of the rainbow.. But back on the green Skies are blue, and money is king Though sometimes he has to wish The club would become an expedient lightning rod Just for a few microseconds Because suddenly the game seems To be getting so lame.