Big Nate by Lincoln Peirce for April 04, 1993
The spring is here, the sun is out. A gentle wind is breezin The grass, the trees, The birds, the bees All say: It's baseball season!" And from the house A hero strides. The cheering crowd goes mad. He's not Canseco, Not McGwire This players, This player's name is Dad. He steps upon The playing field. Around the grounds he's joggin And all the while The sun's warm rays Reflect off his bald noggin. Upon his hand He wears his glove The ball is in its pocket. Not only that, He has a bat With which he plans to sock it. He grips the ball Across the seams. He means to throw it hard. He tells his son, "Go over there- The far end of the yard." And so he hurls The ball aloft, Into the sky so clear. But now his back I heard to crack Nate: This happens every year.
Who needs boring, old poets with Nate here.