I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as frisbee,
A sport with hucks thrown outside-in
find Steve, whose mark was fronting him,
A sport where swing cuts are divine
to get your handler off the line
A sport that I in summer play
A pick-up game most every day
Upon whose fun does not rely
On sunny days, e'en rain is fine.
Yes, poems may bring you fame and glamour,
But nothing ever beats a hammer.