donzblock
12-11-2007, 12:54 PM
The Love Song of Joseph Paul Torre
Love: Zero Points (Webster's
Let us go then, I and you,
Where the sky is colored LA blue,
Like someone ethierised for a colonoscopy.
I see four fingers bearing rings,
Befitting one who comes from Kings.
But, no! I am not Brooklyny.
From the park the people usually go
Before the traffic gets too slow.
I am old. I am old.
My legs are gone. My back is bowed.
Should I hitch up my pants?
Do my guys have a chance?
Will I tan? Will I burn?
Where Hollywood meets Vine, will I know how to turn?
From the park the people usually go
Before the traffic gets too slow.
And indeed there was a time
When I was in my prime.
Before I had these left coast clients,
I rooted for the New York Giants!
The Brooklyn Bums I didn't like.
Against me then there is one strike.
And indeed there was a time
Long after my Brooklyn prime
When I engaged in Bronx hankee pankees
And managed the New York Yankees.
The Bronx: where Dodger victories were few.
Against me then there is strike two.
And indeed there will be a time
Way past my Brooklyn prime
When I will stand on a hill
And recall which team my team did kill.
Yes, I will earn a handsome fee,
And something else--a loud strike three.
I grow cold. I grow cold.
I will see my team collapse and fold.
My joints have congealed.
I will wear LA blue and limp onto the field.
I am not a Brooklynite, nor was meant to be.
In Park Slope bars, I made the rounds,
Played lots of ball on the Parade Grounds,
But my mom loved Jackie and Newk,
Carl, Peewee, Preacher, Gil, and Duke.
I loved milkshakes, chocolate mints,
Dixie cups, egg creams, and the Jints.
I was picked on, a fat kid, ate fattening stuff.
My only friends? Food and the guys from Coogan's Bluff.
There was a time when I could do it,
But never for Brooklyn. I blew it.
Don Z. Block
Love: Zero Points (Webster's
Let us go then, I and you,
Where the sky is colored LA blue,
Like someone ethierised for a colonoscopy.
I see four fingers bearing rings,
Befitting one who comes from Kings.
But, no! I am not Brooklyny.
From the park the people usually go
Before the traffic gets too slow.
I am old. I am old.
My legs are gone. My back is bowed.
Should I hitch up my pants?
Do my guys have a chance?
Will I tan? Will I burn?
Where Hollywood meets Vine, will I know how to turn?
From the park the people usually go
Before the traffic gets too slow.
And indeed there was a time
When I was in my prime.
Before I had these left coast clients,
I rooted for the New York Giants!
The Brooklyn Bums I didn't like.
Against me then there is one strike.
And indeed there was a time
Long after my Brooklyn prime
When I engaged in Bronx hankee pankees
And managed the New York Yankees.
The Bronx: where Dodger victories were few.
Against me then there is strike two.
And indeed there will be a time
Way past my Brooklyn prime
When I will stand on a hill
And recall which team my team did kill.
Yes, I will earn a handsome fee,
And something else--a loud strike three.
I grow cold. I grow cold.
I will see my team collapse and fold.
My joints have congealed.
I will wear LA blue and limp onto the field.
I am not a Brooklynite, nor was meant to be.
In Park Slope bars, I made the rounds,
Played lots of ball on the Parade Grounds,
But my mom loved Jackie and Newk,
Carl, Peewee, Preacher, Gil, and Duke.
I loved milkshakes, chocolate mints,
Dixie cups, egg creams, and the Jints.
I was picked on, a fat kid, ate fattening stuff.
My only friends? Food and the guys from Coogan's Bluff.
There was a time when I could do it,
But never for Brooklyn. I blew it.
Don Z. Block