Of fastballs I have seen a few,
of curves and cutters, change-ups, too,
and splitters, spitters, sliders … oooh,
that I can’t put in play.
Seeming sly as Scaramouche,
hurlers wild as “Nuke” Laloush
throw pitches past me with a whoosh
to notch another “K”.

I’ve strived to clout from both sides now
but swung or stared with knitted brow
while hearing umpires third strikes call …
I’ve really got no clout at all.

And I am no defensive shield,
for, badly as I bat, I wield
my glove yet worse when in the field
(like Buckner’s nightmare day[1]),
routinely dropping routine flies
and granting grounders seeing eyes.
One base or more’s a gimme prize
when balls are hit my way

I’ve tried my glove on both sides now,
at first and third, and I allow
a base on ev’ry batted ball …
I’ve really got no glove at all.

In short, I am a one-man skid
on whose contract no one would bid,
an albatross my team can’t rid
by trading me away.
No matter what or how I try,
to Casey’s query[2] my reply
would have to be “No, Sir, not I” …
there’s nothing more to say.

And baseball fans on all sides now
must surely know this Baseball Tao:
In DC as in Montreal
I really can’t play ball at all.