Babe Ruth
Posted: 14 Sep 2021, 02:49
V2:
Babe Ruth
It was exasperating as hell:
while I slept with my bat for good luck,
the Babe was out every night
with some Carol Lombard look-alike,
tottering into the clubhouse the next morning
sporting the same clothes as when he left.
I played baseball the right way:
hitting to the right side,
sacrificing myself to move a runner over.
Hitting the bed by curfew.
A sacrifice bunt was as foreign
to the Babe as chastity.
I worked harder in the batting cage
than anyone. I had calluses
on my hands as thick as quarters.
Singles remained my forte
while homers for Ruth came
as naturally as pissing.
I hit the outfield grass early
to work on fielding.
Babe put as much time
in improving his fielding
as he did at confessionals
on St. Patrick's Day.
How could I possibly garner
the thunderous applause of Ruth,
out of shape, his legs heavy
like a prize fighter's in the late rounds,
fouling a single memento off
into the upper seats?
V1:
Babe Ruth
It was exasperating as hell:
while I slept with my bat for good luck,
the Babe was out every night
with some Carol Lombard look-alike,
the next morning tottering
into the clubhouse in the same clothes
he had worn when he left
the day before.
I played baseball the right way:
hitting to the right side,
sacrificing myself to move a runner over.
Hitting the bed by curfew.
A sacrifice bunt was as foreign
to the Babe as chastity.
I worked harder in the batting cage
than anyone. I had calluses
on my hands as thick as quarters.
Singles remained my forte
while homers for Ruth came
as naturally as pissing.
I hit the outfield grass early
to work on fielding.
Babe put as much time
in improving his fielding
as he did at confessionals
on St. Patrick's Day.
How could I possibly garner
the thunderous applause of Ruth,
out of shape, his legs heavy
like a prize fighter's in the late rounds,
fouling a single memento off
into the upper seats?
Babe Ruth
It was exasperating as hell:
while I slept with my bat for good luck,
the Babe was out every night
with some Carol Lombard look-alike,
tottering into the clubhouse the next morning
sporting the same clothes as when he left.
I played baseball the right way:
hitting to the right side,
sacrificing myself to move a runner over.
Hitting the bed by curfew.
A sacrifice bunt was as foreign
to the Babe as chastity.
I worked harder in the batting cage
than anyone. I had calluses
on my hands as thick as quarters.
Singles remained my forte
while homers for Ruth came
as naturally as pissing.
I hit the outfield grass early
to work on fielding.
Babe put as much time
in improving his fielding
as he did at confessionals
on St. Patrick's Day.
How could I possibly garner
the thunderous applause of Ruth,
out of shape, his legs heavy
like a prize fighter's in the late rounds,
fouling a single memento off
into the upper seats?
V1:
Babe Ruth
It was exasperating as hell:
while I slept with my bat for good luck,
the Babe was out every night
with some Carol Lombard look-alike,
the next morning tottering
into the clubhouse in the same clothes
he had worn when he left
the day before.
I played baseball the right way:
hitting to the right side,
sacrificing myself to move a runner over.
Hitting the bed by curfew.
A sacrifice bunt was as foreign
to the Babe as chastity.
I worked harder in the batting cage
than anyone. I had calluses
on my hands as thick as quarters.
Singles remained my forte
while homers for Ruth came
as naturally as pissing.
I hit the outfield grass early
to work on fielding.
Babe put as much time
in improving his fielding
as he did at confessionals
on St. Patrick's Day.
How could I possibly garner
the thunderous applause of Ruth,
out of shape, his legs heavy
like a prize fighter's in the late rounds,
fouling a single memento off
into the upper seats?
