by Norman Ball
I’m not so much a poet as a wit.
A lesser Donne—or is that Killebrew? ¹—
whose metaphysics veered only to hit
a startling homerun. What’s more, who knew
a Twickenham for twits would be my lot?
Alerted sooner, I’d have set about
perfecting stand-up bits. To wit, it’s not
a case of putting sense before the out.
It’s just my best go foul—all men on base
await their laureate. I dust the plate.
The dream of every jester is to chase
the Babe, not don the mascot’s flea-bit pate.
O perverse fate, all strikes redound to me
when, ere I come, to two, and then to three.