…and the sky will be blue / and I will be… true…
Yeah, man, that’s it. What do you want?
What I want is some f$%king poetry, man. You don’t come to Team Poetry Night with that weak shit time and time again, hombre.
I worked hard on that one.
Hard? Are you shittin’ me? Rhyming “true” with “blue”?! Last week, I came up with an entire series of couplets rhyming with “sphygmomanometer.” Top that, bitch!
Don’t hassle me. Back in 2004, when you guys couldn’t write your way out of a paper sack, I was carrying Team Poetry Night! I was John Lennon to your Rick Springfield! The UK version of “The Office” to your inferior US version!
But what have you done lately? Hell, we ain’t seen so much as a decent haiku outta you in months.
So what is this? You’re kicking me out of Team Poetry Night?
Those are your words, not ours. But…
But we can’t wait forever for you to snap out of it. We found someone who we think turns a mean sonnet.
Yeah, bring him in. Bring in the new guy.
Good evening. And might I add that a woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted / Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion / A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted / With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion.
DAYAM. That is some seriously f%^king awesome stuff. That’s nip-hardening verse right there. F@#k.
Thank you. And might I add that it’s a pleasure to be invited to my first Team Poetry Night.
That’s two “might I add”s! His words are like a song!
Face it, Papi. He’s outclassed ya. I’m sorry. You just can’t hang anymore.
You know what? Good. Three [expletive] bad poems, and already you [expletives] are going crazy. What’s up with that, man? [Expletive]. I got a lot of [expletive] poetry left in me. That’s a [expletive]. One of you [expletives] can go ahead and write for me.
LATER THAT NIGHT…
So. David. I hear you’re not part of Team Poetry Night anymore.
So? You wanna gloat?
Quite the opposite. You know, we Yankees have a rich tradition of poetry ourselves. Surely you remember Thurman Munson’s “I Know Why The Caged Jockstrap Sings” or Reggie Jackson’s “Show Me Your Tits! I’m Reggie Jackson, For F#$k’s Sake!”
Heard of them? They’re like the holy grail of baseball poetry.
Personally, I think you’ve still got some great works ahead of you. In fact, we’re having a little Team Poetry Night of our own this evening. Why don’t you drop by. Bring your rhyming dictionary.
TWO MONTHS LATER…
Them baggy sweat pants and the Reeboks with the straps / She turned around and gave that big booty a smack / She hit the floor / Next thing you know / Shorty got low low low low low low low low…
That’s… that’s pretty awesome, Jeremy.
Also… it kinda sounds a lot like the lyrics to “Low” by Flo Rida.
What are you insinuating?
That you’re a plagiarist.
Huh? Come on, I mean. Okay, sure, Flo Rida wrote the words. But it’s like he was looking at the inside of my brain when he wrote them! That shit’s my life!
Also, I did some research. Looking closely at your last submission, it looks like a page torn from a poetry book with the name “Shakespeare” crossed out and “Jeremy Hermida” scrawled over it. In crayon, I might add.
Pshaw. Details. Look, I designed us all sporty caps to wear on Poetry Night!
Sorry, man. You know the rules. Just like when Beckett tried to pass off an issue of “Guns and Ammo” as a book of self-composed sonnets–you cheat, you’re gone.
I stand by my work. Dickhead.
But David didn’t cheat. He just lost his edge. And when he did, we forgot about all the wonderful poetry he’d been filling our lives with. His major works, like “Barbecuing With My Bitches” and “The Wonderful Life of a Brown-Tailed Fox” and “Sunshine Lives In Her Trousers.”
Don’t forget “Accountants Ahoy!” That shit was epic.
Think he’d ever come back to Team Poetry Night, coach?
What do you think, asshole? Now that he’s won three Pulitzers as a poet with… the New York Yankees.
Oh yeah. We kinda screwed up on that one.
Oh, come on. Like that would ever happen.