photo by Samara Pearlstein
I don’t think it’s QUITE iambic pentameter (my stresses are all off), and it’s not at all elegant, but… it’s a bloody freakin’ sonnet about bloody freakin’ Placido Polanco. Because 9 out of 10 Shakespearean scholars agree: if you want to express unreasonably deep love for someone, the sonnet is the way to go.
(the 10th Shakespearean scholar is a Yankee fan and thus is incapable of love)
O large-headed man with hat so wide-stretched,
Slugging percentage rising from its place.
Hits baseballs so hard, seams on his bat etched,
With home runs, a triple, always on base.
He backs up his team with those mighty swings,
Not just today, all the season so far.
In his presence a baseball soon gains wings:
We’ve seen Placido make his bat a star.
The rest of the team struggles to get hits,
So we hope Polanco does not get hurt,
For this infielder never has bat fits.
He hits nice and steady, not in a spurt.
And who could question our love of this dude?
Nobody out there better rocks a snood!
What a hitter. What a on-base machiiiiiiine. Love and poetry, man, only the best for Mr. Polanco.