An ode to Espi...with apologies to MacBeth
Is this a fastball which I see before me,
The trajectory toward my bat? Come, let me swing at thee!
I hit thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger to the rally, a false creation
Proceeding from the strike zone into the dirt?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I must swing and miss.
Thou marshall'st me away from taking a pitch a foot out of the zone,
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other senses,