The Sun is not a Star– That’s Obvious, too!

The sun, and let’s get this straight, we have since Copernicus, loved our sun, if only for gleam and glamour an occasional incidental glimmer or shimmering fog-cutting centering, down the middle, our sun is and why is a basketball orange and why must I now qualify basketball traditionally is orange, having seen black, green, but never a white! basketballs

basketballs arching in glorious epihelion or flying buttress or swish not amiss, a miracle throw a salvation of flow a good neighbor or team mate sitting far down the pew who whiffs a peuw as baseball, sterling white and unchangingly so, clangs against toe, shielded so, by black leather and cleats, Cleatus James batting .343, shivers in rain, as it is hard to explain, pro ball when base is left outside (in the rain), while pro ball peach basket is refrained inside, including prison “inside”, we don’t deride, but deprive of the sun

Which shines on everyone, as falleth the rain, the gentle sweet rain,

A prisoner, say Ron Lyle, trains without rain, with scarce a gentle breeze, big maxing or maxxing or mazzzing or doing the max, or doing the maximum security or bench pressing 560 so pressed into service, on the surface, submerged no longer, as he has grown stronger, televisedly so, as to spit into the wind, hope it flows to the sky, to bring back the dye, pressed and printed such life into colorful silk screen sky eye

If blood shot, hoe woe not, it is still our sun, and we love it so.