Now, philosophically, once
Diogenes struck out the great
Corolly Cabolly strode
to the plate.
He carried no bat and wore
no hat and had around his
neck his Siamese cat.
Cabolly told the confounded
ump the cat was holy.
“Holy? Beans!” cried the umpire
and ordered Cabolly to immediately
retire.
But, the fans, the fans had something
else in mind and screamed Corolly Cabolly
till they all went blind.
Cabolly was not known to let a fan
down and thus wrestled the ump
into the ground.
The dug outs cleared, the blind fans
cheered, and the pitcher
had to face that thing he feared.
An unbatted batter who was madder
than a hatter.
Cabolly grabbed his feline by the
tale and sang to her that she must
not fail.
The cat went stiff, as if struck by
light, and Cabolly yelled out to
the mound, “Alright!”
With his words fan sight returned,
the dugouts refilled,
and the pitcher with a grin reached
down for the kill.
Faster than fast, no one could
pretend, he let go a fastball a hundred
and ten!
Cabolly stood square with his cat
in his hands. “Oh, yeah? Take
this!” was his fated command.
And soon as the words had passed from his lips,
as soon as the pitch left mere finger tips,
the cat snapped its back and with thunderous
crack, the sphere called a ball was not
that at all.
It was bullet, it was rocket, it was
guided missile in thrall, and Carolly Carbolly’s
ball sailed over
the wall!
THE POETRY OF THE GAME