of infinite jest, of most excellent captaincy: he hath
borne the Sox on his back a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! His bat whiffs at
it. Here hung those curveballs he had hit I know
not how oft. Where be your might now? Your
contact? Your swings? Your flashes of power,
that were wont to set the crowd on a roar? Not one
now, to mock your old Heidi? Quite cap-fallen?
Now get you to Lester's chamber, and tell him paint
the corners an inch thick, to this favour he must
come; make them swing at that.
Win this shit you impotent bastards
Edited by Infield Infidel, 14 August 2009 - 04:18 AM.