by Michael X. Ferraro
The loose luggage of Jonathan Lucroy
Makes it tough for Brew fans to enjoy
.   This stretch of the season
.   As they squirm with unease ‘n
Wonder why a valise would destroy?
The loose luggage of Jonathan Lucroy
Makes it tough for Brew fans to enjoy
.   This stretch of the season
.   As they squirm with unease ‘n
Wonder why a valise would destroy?
David Wright scorching
Teddy Ballgame shakes his head
Summer slump ahead
Steve Balboni at the plate,
Dave Collins really swings the bat.
Juan Espino? He’ll be great!
Roy Smalley fields just like a cat!
This Yankee team, remember when?
Those future talents, to be found.
It’s nineteen-eighty-two again!
And Dave LaRouche is on the mound.
Here’s Tommy John, age thirty-nine.
And Lee Mazzilli, batting first,
Is there, by chance, a stronger wine?
I’ve grown a Bobby Meacham thirst.
Curt Kaufman’s warming in the pen,
Another save shall not be blown.
It’s nineteen-eighty-two again,
Now batting, catcher Rick Cerone.
It’s only May; we’ll start anew,
We really can’t be in such shambles.
We’ve Jeter, ARod, Swisher, too.
Not Hobsons, Dents and Oscar Gambles.
Alas, I feel intense new fears.
It’s twenty-twelve… or am I wrong?
If eighty-two, I need some beers,
The next Depression’s twelve years long.
Please provide some hope to kids like Hart Seely, and purchase his new book, The Juju Rules: Or How to Win Baseball Games from Your Couch.
Wrigley’s burning, the stands filled with pickets
Fans are spurning the clan they call Ricketts
.    If their pop’s Super Pac
.    Will not stop the attack
They’re returning their damn season tickets
Hilary Barta likes to stir up trouble at his limerick blog, LimerWrecks.