Friday, April 13, 2012


The baseball, like a missile,
Blazes its deadly course—
Its stitches softly whistle—
No bat can bend its force.

Batsman, your foot fast planted—
In Atlas-like sinew
The globe's staid heft so slanted—
Connect and follow through.

What though the ball fly truly,
The bat against it pressed—
The shoulder turning duly—
The foot remains at rest.

And thus the very planet
Swings suddenly around—
Till like a plunging gannet
The baseball meets the ground.

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