By Stuart Shea
His arm is meat-o.
He goes down
To weekly defeat-o.
His salary is
Unless you’re the Giants who may have to eat-o
His contract if he can’t find some team in the National League, or even anywhere at any level of organized baseball, that he can beat-o.
Published in Players, Pure doggerel, San Francisco Giants, Stu Shea | Link to this poem | No Comments