Bukowski's an ******* But I'll put up With his lousy **** First one's a fast ball Dickinson's a hermit And if we're honest All she really needed Was to get out of the house Number two and she missed the curve Hughes never taught me much He was a saint long before Death to the far too optimistic man Ball three flies straight to the bat Morrison could hypnotize and tried to be More than just one bad acid trip But no one could quite decide If he was any good without the Doors Strike three, ladies and gentlemen I'm a hopeful poet Who's wondering now what It is they'll say about me