a melancholy poem by Lew Brickhate
You threw me curves all night, but before the night was over, I touched all bases.
Then we became battery mates, resulting in no-hitters.
Your over-sized mitts would catch the release point of my knuckle-spit balls.
But alas, you got traded to Japan–not Normal, a late-Bloomer, I could only throw so far.
But I will keep trying to reach you, even if it means I become Venus DeMilo.
Ignoring signals which come from above; I screwed up, I threw away love.
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