Dylan Thomas of the Mound

Bob Gibson pitched as if he read

'Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night'

before every start.

His outings were Hollywood epics

in technicolor,

orchestrated,

and with a cast of thousands.

Batter's heads rolled almost as fast

as Gibby's sweat.

If they crowded the plate he made them pay;

dig in on him and Bob went leg hunting.

It seemed in money games

all he had to do get a 'W'

was step on the mound.

Hoot cashed in with or without his best stuff;

one usually couldn't tell the difference.

No modern-

not Koufax, Carlton, Hersheiser,

Clemens, Ford, Marichal, Vida Blue,

or even Guidry in '78-

was as dominating as Hoot in '68.

Gibson, in that years' first Series game,

was a sculptor with a baseball.

17 Tigers fanned;

they couldn't have hit him swinging redwoods.

7-2 lifetime in the World Series,

Bob got more k's than Carter had little liver pills.

Riding into life's sunset Hoot fears no evil-

how's the Reaper gonna get Gibby

with a baseball in his ear?

Dan Grey Taylor Jr.

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