by NaryBarry
Barry Bonds is a fearsome home run hitter
Who sends all his fans into quite a twitter.
His manhood has not shrunk
From that steroid junk–
Maybe the judge will be an acquiter.
Magglio’s Last Laugh
by James Finn Garner
When Kenny Williams told Maggs
To pack up his bags,
Hinting grit wasn’t one of his talents,
Kenny hadn’t the notion
That he’d set in motion
An era of Motown Magg-nificence.
Magglio got maligned
but later was signed
By Tiger whiz David Dombrowski.
Now he’s hitting like Gehrig,
While the White Sox are staring
over their shoulders, worried ’bout Kansas City.
Posted 7/25/07
To a Donkey
by Tara Franey
Should Adam from Milwaukee hit the road?
His prowess hitting baseballs from the park
Might truly cause my heart to overload.
Ah, yet the line ‘twixt fan and foe is stark
And Hark! Cry those who wish to see him gone:
“He strikes out often and he is not clutch!”
But others here in Redsville are quite fond
Of walks and pitches seen and that nonesuch
Formidable – that bat – when he’s afire,
But in the field is where he fares the worst.
His salary is high and growing high’r
And give him an extension, no one durst.
The fate of Adam Dunn I do not know,
But if he leaves, I’ll mourn to see him go.
O’s Woes
by Grady Hammerson
A decade now of losing woes,
Of succumbing to the AL foes.
Ten long years of losing flings
As other teams collect their rings.
Since the glory days of Frank and Brooks,
When Palmer induced those nervous looks,
When Ripken played without much rest,
Before Palmeiro failed his test,
When Boog was more than BBQ’s,
Before the Yankees stole our Moose,
Back when Brady hit 50 dingers–
The memory of it barely lingers.
We still watch and hope and pray
That the Orioles will succeed someday,
That they will hit a winning stride
And let their fans feel joy and pride,
But for now we watch games rarely pleasin’,
And say, “At least there’s football season.”
Posted 7/23/07
7th Inning Stench
by Sid Yiddish
Last call for alcohol
Last call for your nation at bat
It was that last great league in Irish Town where he never forgets
The crack of the bat feels like the spit of his fame just blowin’ in the breeze
Like the crumbled skeleton staring at the door with its head between its knees
Old skeleton knows where it’s going, night after night after night
To wash its hands of curses, sins of the past 80 years, look in the mirror and cry
For it’s the soul of the league that’s on trial
No longer can a skeleton smile, just shake, like those pep pills and drugs and business that now sweeps it under the rug, while the GAT of the thug is shoved into the back of the big boss who pushes aside the integrity of the game for payoffs and thrills
The record is broken, the record is cast
The crowd doesn’t say much when the dark shadow is cast into stone or the graveyard in the hall
He cast the first shadow, so he did fall
The crowd remains silent
The crowd still remains
Old skeleton washes up in a sea of notoriety
Like the spit of his fame.
Posted 7/19/07