Ike Davis is batting .143.
Please, general manager,
put him out of his misery,
and send him down to Triple A.
Better yet, get rid of the whole team,
and send my guys up to the plate.
Poe will punch out a single.
Malamud will strike a novel deep
to the center field wall,
and Bellow will belt out
a literary essay to the gap.
Shakespeare will bat clean-up.
In the bottom of the inning,
Steinbeck, the kid from California,
will take the mound and hurl smoke.
Fitzgerald will relieve later on,
and, if necessary, Hemingway will close.
Roth covers a lot of ground at short,
and Updike can turn a wicked double play.
They can’t do worse than your guys.
Remember, Ike Davis is batting .143.