There's plenty of fine cars in the lot
at the park. That's when you know we're playing
baseball, in our extremely felt hats, worth
every exotic minute of our fabrics with them
fine women in man made materials--little
of it, standing to the side as we,re
arguing over uniforms. "Just try and get
me to wear that, I ain't wanting to look
anywhere near you. We each brag about having
truthful hookers, the kind who don't beat
you out of your money. And when Zooty
complained of his bittys, stepped plate-side
and hit a homer with a velveteen bat,
who were we not to believe him.

[This poem is from from The Fall of Because (c 1999), which can be ordered at http://www.puddinghouse.com/pub-guide.htm .]