by David Hedges

A pitcher’s trained to scratch his crotch,
Send signals to the catcher, spit
Tobacco juice, covertly watch
For stolen bases, pound his mitt,

Tap the mound to clear his spikes,
Adjust his cap, wind up—no balks—
And let ‘er fly. He’s thinking strikes,
And cusses when a batter walks.

Now we learn their balls are sticky,
Doused with something ultra-tacky.
Their aim? To stop another Mickey
From appearing, or a Jackie.