I’m telling you, Simmons, those days!
Your tresses plunged like the
Bellwether stocks of the times.
Like the necklines of those
Who tottered for your notice.
We shan’t survive these times, said wartime leaders!
We shan’t survive Ted Simmons
And his seditious mane!
Sacco him before he Vanzetties us!
You, you catcher and framer, hitter, and blocker!
Michigan man! Prince of quick wrists!
Needler of Herzogs! Merchant of dinnertime perils!

Fathers in short sleeves and ties will set their knife
across their peas, point with their fork, and hiss
That Ted Simmons is dangerous!

Tilter at windmills!
Tilter of pinball machines!
Holy bewitcher!

We were something, you and I! But mostly you …
We’d have made your hair the president if we could’ve.
But if elected it will not serve,
Which is the thing about things
Sourced from the womb of a Cumulonimbus.

The hair that flows like beaded doorways
Granting safe passage to session bassists!
Like condor sperm heaven-bent on
Impregnating the 1950s!

As reliably as liquor drunkens,
So too do you!
O, feral wilding!
O, Simba!

(This piece originally appeared at FanGraphs. It has since been revised and made even worse, probably.)