Faster than a speeding bullet he
Can throw that pill, so hard it’s hard to see.
The last you see of it is when it leaves his hand.
All you can do is go up there and stand,
Then swing away and hope that he’ll be good
Enough To hit your bat for you. [The likelihood
Of such a thing is small, admittedly,
But still within the realm of possibility.]
Then let’s just say your luck holds good, the ball
Then ricochets and rattles off the left field wall.
But it comes off the bat so fast you’ll be in trouble
If you try to stretch it to a double.
The second sacker, he’ll be waiting with a grin
To tap you on the toe when you come sliding in.
2011 jan 27 mar 2 dec 22 2012 sep 5 6 8 9 10 mon d fulgham
Young Billy Joe keeps throwing smoke,
Keeps knocking batters down like bowling pins
Except for that one lucky stroke.
But hits don't matter much, what counts is wins.
His teammates put some hits and runs together.
When he needs to be he's tough as leather
And the game is for the City Crown.
He can be counted on, no doubt,
To come through when the chips are down.
But then a batter bunts and beats it out.
No matter how much smoke he's got
A pitcher can't tell one to not.
A fair to middling batter can
Lay down a fair to middling bunt
If he is of a mind to show his hand.
Just square around and dump the ball in front
Of him and hope that it stays fair,
The throw is low or too late by a hair.
The next man up, he does the same.
Then, as they say, the infield falls apart,
It's sad, but part and parcel of the game.
The Fates have had a change of heart.
They can't get anybody out.
The inning turns into a rout.
There is no way to stop the skid.
It's not his day, young Billy Joe
Is just another mother's kid.
Or is it Fate that laid him low,
That set the snare that made him fall--
Showed young Greek Gods are mortal after all.
Draft 31 oct 2007 1 nov 2 3 28 nov 10 24 Aug 2012 9 sep sun d fulgham