Norman Mailer

The ball is blasted through the poem, kiddo.

If you didn’t want to see fence-clearing dingers,

why would you take the time to kiss Babe Ruth

and buy The Short Right Field Porch of Prose?

Why would most of your old friends take the time

to passive-aggressively freeze you out?

Did they not buy boxers at Superior Park

just to shout, ‘Hit one out, Jimmy McClout!’

The ball finally sails above the poem, its spin

stuck in words that mean ‘flying jizz,’ whereas

a copy of The Flying Jizz Poems is inscribed

‘My signature is punishment enough.’

Slugged over the fence every single time,

the ball’s like a poem if it gets an A,

sits down to brunch, complains about Kansas,

screams, ‘That’s a goddamned home run, you cocks!’