Wacha-Mole

By Stuart Shea

Matheny hoped for damage control
As each reliever dug a hole.
Choate was awful, Maness ehh,
Rosenthal wild, Martinez bleh.

Who is left to call on, then?
Wacha’s down there, in the pen…
He hasn’t pitched for several weeks,
But nothing’s left that doesn’t leak.

See one problem, cause another–
That’s how bullpens work, my brother.
How to fix this bullpen bleed?
Get a bigger lead.

 


Published in Management, Players, Pure doggerel, St. Louis Cardinals, Stu Shea, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 2 Comments

2014 Wild Card World Series

by The Village Elliott

Wild card teams took each league’s gonfalon,
Both the Giants and Royals now play on,
.     Well-matched World Series picks,
.     Think they’ll split the first six,
Best team wins seventh Game marathon.

 


Published in Kansas City Royals, Limerick, San Francisco Giants, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 1 Comment

From the Back of the Room

by Stephen Jones

Hey, know-all’s — you once confidently said
The World Series this year is for the birds.
But surprise . . . your Cardinals and Orioles
Have flown south in avian farewell.

You may analyse ’til you are blue,
But that old adage, it still holds true:
Pitching, not hitting, wins in postseason.
The Giants, the Royals have this in legion.

 


Published in Baltimore Orioles, Kansas City Royals, Pure doggerel, San Francisco Giants, St. Louis Cardinals, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 2 Comments

Bye-Bye, Birdie

by Stephen Jones

The Oriole got stuffed.
Mounted, on the shelf
By sweeping Royal decree . . .
It was a KC taxidermy.

 


Published in Baltimore Orioles, Kansas City Royals, Pure doggerel | Link to this poem | 3 Comments

Cubs Lose!

by Jim U-Boat, the Poet Laureate of Calumet City

In honor of the 106th anniversary Tuesday of the last Cubs World Series victory.

Before you all blow
Your hard-worked-for dough
On dumb, next-year-we’ll-win theories,
I’ll remind you again
Of how long it’s been
Since the Cubs have won the World Series.

It’s 106 years!
And oceans of tears
Since Cub players were rightly called greats.
We’re now 10 decades hence,
Nineteen presidents
From our country of 47 states.

There were no CDs,
TVs, or LPs;
Eight years before stainless steel;
Reagan hadn’t been born
Of Illinois corn;
A score before the New Deal.

When the Cubs last decided
Without being chided
To win (back then they were ready),
The White House’s star
Was not FDR –
It was his ol’ cousin Teddy.

Cub fans should wean
Themselves off a team
That’s “0-for” since 1908,
But these masochists
Will always exist
While others, in turn, celebrate.

 


Published in Chicago Cubs, Fans, Former Teams, History, Pure doggerel, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 2 Comments

Bye-Bye, Birdie

Cubs Lose!

Birds of a Feather

Your Daily Affirmation, from Brad Ausmus

AL East

NL East

Extra Innings

AL Central

NL Central

Poems by Type

AL West

NL West

Heavy Hitters

Copyright 2007 Bardball.