Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Loitering near history’s portals,
The aces proved to be mere mortals
And all the vaunted firemen
Sprinkled gas again and again.
No margin safe, no lead secure.
“Mighty Bregman”? Why not, sure!
Houston’s muggy, the balls are juiced
Hitters snort antler of moose.
Whate’er excuse, my answer remains:
Baseball is the greatest game.
Seeking applicants
Who are mystical
About everything statistical.
Ability to count
A major prerequisite.
So is inability
To just patiently sit.
At critical moments
Must promise not to look
At the guy on the mound.
Go instead by the book.
Need a quick hook.
Hitting blasts by the ton, bats were bended
But the Astros had won when it ended
The American League
Took good care of Yas Puig
And then sassed him with tongues all extended.
In LA balls were thrown and bats swung
Even good old Vin Scully seemed young
The game’s great again
So can someone explain
What the hell is the deal with the tongues?
This concept, though weird,
causes me trouble:
If a ball gets tossed in
Or merely lost in
Justin Turner’s beard,
Is it a ground rule double?