Here's the pitch

        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

You're out!