Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
By Stu Shea
Sure, they won the World Series just two years ago,
But that’s history, bro.
Get hip!
Chicago is slumping
The media’s dumping
And everyone’s jumping the ship.
The season’s turned into the crumbs of corn chips.
No one’s even surprised
At Guillen’s rude slips of the lip
For his team’s gotten older
And the value of aging, .230-ish sluggers is —Â zip.
Shouldn’t someone ring Kenny Williams’ bell?
Inform him, pray tell,
That after two years,
Even good socks can smell?
Can’t hit, can’t pitch, can’t win,
Like ’62 all over again.
Their bats stilled
By the strong-armed Phils?
The bullpen pounded
By the mighty Dodgers.
Swept away in LA
We can still play, they say
We’ll win again someday.
We’ll get cranked
Against the Yanks,
So the boys keep swinging,
But the league keeps singing:
Meet the Mets,
Greet the Mets,
Step right up and beat the Mets,
Give us this day our daily slaughter —
Send in the Mets!
Posted 6/18/07
I wish the Cubs had
Ichiro Starting in Right
Instead of Jacques Jones.
The Wooden Elbow
Continues to be creaky–
For godsakes, just pitch!
Documentary
About Barry Bonds’ Seventy-Third:
LitigationBall.
Posted 6/15/07
by Lou Carlozo
Despite Barry Bonds’ many homers,
It appears that his body’s a loaner,
For his steroid technique
Birthed an android’s physique:
An aluminum bat for a boner.
O give us a home
Where no buffalo roam
Under tarp by the baggie we play,
Where echos are heard
While Punto’s at third,
And at first hear JM say, “Eh.”
Dome, Dome for the deranged,
Why ever play baseball outside?
Fly balls disappear,
and hit speakers we fear.
Those carpet burns sure hurt when you slide.
Published 6/14/07