Poem for Lefty

You started to list your favourite baseball players of all time
About half of them are called Lefty or Willie, or were I should say
No doubt they are all buried now, but I wonder
If one of these Leftys pitched the ball all southpaw, did he open bottles like that,
did he sign autographs like that, did he sweep the yard like that?
Was he pure lefty, or cross-dominant, a neat little twist of fate?
He could see in his peripheral vision, bases and runners that others could not see
but did it cause him problems outside of the diamond?
Did they have left-handed scissors a hundred years ago, or was he foiled when faced with a coupon to cut out, the result all jagged, torn and irredeemable?
Yet it was this capriciousness that granted him eternal life in Cooperstown, sealed his greatness
He could afford to have people open his bottles, sign his name and sweep his yard.
Now he’s sat up amongst the clouds, with Gentleman Jim and Frankie Albert, at God’s left hand

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