Who’s that lefty on the hill?
He can really move that pill.
How’s he make it do that shit?
Cuts the ball or uses spit.
Throws a foot short of the rubber.
Ball’s so juiced it could be flubber.
He could stay out all night drinking.
Just mean his curve will be sinking.
One of the Yanks’ all-time kings.
Left hand won six Series rings.
He’s up in heaven now with Mick,
in their pinstriped golf cart.
And when the clubhouse bar opens,
they’ll be there from the start.
When I was a boy, around eight, nine and ten,
I had a good imagination, but just one good friend.
And he, my friend, was Mickey Mantle, needed dad menage,
a summertime mirage at my side, out against the garage.
My grip, exact upon the small bat handle,
I’d run inside up steps in his limp gait.
I’d hit and field and throw just like the Mick,
trot bases, head down, never celebrate.
I turned my toothy grin into a reticent half smile,
sometimes imagined pain in both my shins.
I tried an Oklahoma drawl. That dropped in a short while.
I worshipped all my icons, photos, baseball cards and pins.
It’s hard to think a lone white boy in times of Eisenhower
could be confused and even fearful of the noontime sirens,
whose dreams of fireworks often turned to nuclear shower.
A boy must best adapt to his environs.
And, so, I owe a vote of thanks to my fave athlete,
who got me out of my white house, if not out on the street.
Mick dispelled the theory I could not play well with others.
I see him now not as a father; more like we were brothers.
The cockroaches have dirt on him.
He’s just part of their scam.
He’s not of this earth, you see.
He is an insect man.
More powerful than Ant Man,
more popular than Beatles,
he drives the Covid Killer Train.
He’s king of dirty needles.
Another daft from t.v. land
to shout death’s throaty call.
Soon there will be enough corpses
to finish up the wall.
They’re all in plastic cases,
piled up somewhere in the west.
They say that Atlas lives in one.
The food in there’s the best.
Put me in your page.
Then I’ll grow grey with age.
I’m your bookmark.
Drop me on the floor.
That’s o.k., you got lots more.
I’m your bookmark.
Sometimes I’m substituted
for one more fitting to the theme.
I know that I’ll come back,
though laying in a stack.
Because caressing pages is my dream.
Give me dogged ears
that droop more through the years.
I’m your bookmark.
When I’m on your shelf,
I’m my better self.
I’m your bookmark.
Bill Barr’s House of Justice is exciting many fears.
They’ll execute a woman, the first in seventy years.
It makes a point that in some ninety days
his vengeance wing can hurt us many ways.
His army of ICE rubes and border haters
are dangerous as hungry alligators.
His serving on the big Thanksgiving platter
could be an intense heat on Black Lives Matter.
His present for the country Christmas season
could be arresting protesters for treason.
And on the time of power’s great transition,
we still have no inkling on his position.
If it’s “Katy, Barr the door,”
will it start a civil war?
We may need to call the Justice League
to end these four long years of Trump fatigue.
They found the lemur who was kidnapped
from the Frisco zoo.
He roamed a park in Daly City,
early-voted, too.
He was pleased, part of the group
called “Lemurs Against Trump.”
If he could free the meerkats,
Biden would get quite the bump.
All zoos are a hotbed now
of Democratic zeal.
Many caged love AOC,
fans of her Green New Deal.
From penguins to gnus,
you’ll never hear much about Trump.
The only time they shout his name
is when they take a dump.