Let me write to you!
Some thing
About baseball.
Or going through three
as a Latin poet.

This preacher had
fiddled a wooden cross,
laying it down
every time I
throw a fast ball.

He reaches
the t.v.
guide wonderously
curses Cubs.
A stick, of gum.  
Wriggling in between
giggling as whom
has the windy
affair.  

Starched cold pressed
pen stripes, left two right.
Alway, do dowelry.  
Of course revelation.
"Did he, boy!?"  Get through.  
Just lay down, thinking,
to look at the last payment.  

No names, and we
still play baseball
around 3.