He’s throwing blurs out there
They’re swinging at yesterday’s pitch
His fastball has more hops than a rabbit
Someone check that ball for burn marks
Check him for a gun
Ain’t throwing nothing but rockets
He must be drinking jet fuel
Thor wants his lightning back
Call out the fire department
I smell something burning
He’s breaking the sound barrier
and hitters’ hearts
If he was white
he’d be on
a bullet train to New York City
THE POETRY OF THE GAME