by James Finn Garner
Some say we face the End Times,
With ice caps disappearing,
Financial pains and hurricanes,
And war with Russia nearing.
But th’ hills of Armageddon
Will look like fields of clover
If the Pale Hose and Cubs oppose
Each other in October.
We’ll see blue-faced yuppies pounce
On shirtless mokes with mullets,
The Bridgeport night with bombs alight,
and Bernie’s strafed with bullets.
The hordes of Satan’s army
And counterparts from Heaven
Will find that they’ve not much to save
If the Series goes to seven.
Published in Chicago Cubs, Chicago Cubs, Chicago White Sox, Chicago White Sox, James Finn Garner, Pure doggerel | Link to this poem | 1 Comment