In the Doggerel House 3

Some more verses on the writing and sporting life:

There are guides to Joyce all over,
They explain every name and cuss;
I wish there was some such book
To explain Pee-Wee Herman to us.
A mender of posts made seesaws for a while,
Then at roulette he bet his whole pile;
He lost it all without a second glance,
He went from tinker to levers to chance.
The critic said of an author,
“He can’t write a sentence that’s dull.”
So I read one of his books
And I find that opinion quite null.
Behind the plate was one of the worst,
Passed balls would go by Mr. Cree;
They called him the Ancient Mariner
Because he stoppeth one of three.
It was in her father’s library that Woolf grew up,
From books she was taught to think and be kind;
What children learn now in their parents’ den
Is how to fast forward and how to rewind.
When Don Chapman used a bat filled with cork, 
He hit one that would have left any park or domer;
The report on that blast bore the title
“On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer.”
We sent Eliot there, they sent Auden here,
It could be considered an exchange of favors;
If we made a trade now, there’d be a parade
So the poets could pass through waivers.
The shortstop knew he was going home
When the fans yelled, “Send him down. He stinks.”
He was with the club for almost a week
And the only thing he caught was forty winks.
Shaw ardently believed in spelling reform,
So he told everyone with whom he chewed the fat;
I don’t know why G.B. got so worked up—
I spell it r-e-f-o-r-m and let it go at that.
Everyone on the air can be sued nowadays
So in the booth they watch every word:
“I think Johnson was just thrown out
Allegedly for trying to steal third.”
Norman Douglas thought from their fans authors should get
Things like fish, erotic books, or cash to make them rich;
One of them smells, one tempts, and the other corrupts,
But I can’t say for sure which does which.  
Players were once brought on like this:
“At halfback, number 32, from Ol’ Miss…”
But some teams now have to sadly state,
“At end, number 103692, from cellblock eight…”
It is well to read Melville and Hawthorne,
The authors who used whales and sin for their matter;
We try to keep as far as we can from the former
And we can’t get close enough to the latter.
My baseball stance was a novel one:  
I stood on the plate in front of the catcher;
I led the league in getting to first base,
Though I usually got there on a stretcher.
Dunsany claimed he could write a story about mud,
And then he did just that for all the world to see;
I wouldn’t attempt to so such a thing
Because I think that subject is beneath me.
A friend thought of Vonnegut as a handsome Boris Karloff,
I’m not sure if that would’ve made him smile or frown;
This is the same woman who once said to me,
“You look like Paul Newman–from the knees down.”
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