by Hilary Barta
To the bleachers a finger was pointed
With a homer the Babe was anointed
.   The fat patron saint
.   of a lack of restraint
His appetite came double-jointed.
.
Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
To the bleachers a finger was pointed
With a homer the Babe was anointed
.   The fat patron saint
.   of a lack of restraint
His appetite came double-jointed.
.
Did Sultan of Swat, off a bender,
in bleachers eye his favorite vender?
The one that did slog
the hair of the dog
and signal him for headache mender?
Perhaps something else he had spotted
Soft pretzels, all salty and knotted?
Or dogs on steamed buns
he could eat in the tons?
And at them a homer he swatted?
Perhaps someone who owed him money
or some unsuspecting blonde honey
he pointed right at
and then swung his bat
and thought tale concocted was funny?
The legend, they say, is what’s printed
So fiction from history’s minted
Though nobody wrote,
or I’ve not seen the quote,
“The Babe, ’round the bases, had sprinted.”
Rounding second the Babe started wheezing
And at third his whole body was seizing
He at last crossed the plate
“Was it something you ate?”
was the crack from the catcher, just teasing
‘When he fell on the plate’ woulda been funnier.
The Babe raised his leg and then farted
and from box seats several fans darted
The stink from Babe’s moon
caused backstop to swoon
and from field the catcher was carted
That did it!
But wait, there’s more where that came from:
In ballparks his presence was felt
On baseballs his bat left a welt
Then, tempted by franks,
he emptied whole tanks,
and vast clouds of gasses he dealt
Some just won’t let sleeping babes lie
refusing to kiss them good-bye
Is it OCD
that won’t leave him free
to let this link slink off and die?
Growing bored? We have shunned the redundant
And the lore on our subject’s abundant
Babe strides like a god
across Time’s verdant sod
So more of the slugger rotundant!
Babe’s shoes are too big to be filled
His rep and his myth can’t be killed
He’s known ‘cross the world
His feats non pareil
On parchments his exploits are quilled
A giant that walked among men
(Or a Yank, as I guess he was then)
Above others he loomed
(’cause of all he consumed)
The Babe was the greatest, amen!
Despite Bonds, McGwire and Maris
His sweet number 60 is fairest
So perfect, so round,
so story book bound
A number that purists all cherish
I love it! I have to step away, but before i do…
The Babe didn’t take many pitches
He aimed for the fences and riches
As the ‘Sultan of Swat’
he’d hit homers and trot, his gait ‘round the bases delicious