Browse all poems and songs in the 'Cleveland Indians' Category


Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Ballad of a Cringe Man”

by Lou Carlozo

You walk into the booth with your microphone in your hand
The barflies see you on TV: “Oh crap, not him again!”
You smugly shrug it off but you don’t understand
Compared to Ernie Harwell, man, you suck
And the fans of baseball hate you, but you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

The Bleacher Bums are reeling, they’re about to lose their lunch
You’re the brat pre-adolescent everybody wants to punch
Even Harry Caray gets his undies in a bunch
From his grave I heard him moaning, “What the f*ck?”
Perhaps you’d raise a Bud to him, but you don’t know what that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

You flash your trusty press pass and you saunter to the booth
It’s time to practice color, but it’s black-and-white in truth
You may be Jack Buck’s son, but chances are he raised a goof
Perhaps you’ll get run over by a truck
The viewers want Bob Uecker, but you don’t know who that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Here’s a Series match-up that we all would die to see:
You against the Hot Dog Man calling Game 1 on TV
The Hot Dog Man sees ironies and humor you can’t see
And should you crack a joke, we’d say “Good luck”
We’d send you to the minors, but you don’t know where that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Somewhere there’s kid who wants to call the games like you
“Well, kid, here’s how it works, I’m gonna to tell you what to do:
Beat to death a Clayton Kershaw hero trope or two
Until his arm goes lamer than a duck.”
It’s time to turn the sound down, but you don’t care why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Now you ignore the Cubs fan
Shouting the word “UGH!”
The Indian fans are flustered
Crying in their mugs
And you say, “What’s the matter?”
And they scream back, “Earlplugs!
“Give us some or else we’ll yell, ‘Go home!’”
The umps would call you “out,” but you can’t see why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

So get yourself a job, you can mow Vin Scully’s lawn
Or maybe Theo Epstein needs himself a worthless pawn
Too bad you can’t be traded for a pitcher with no arm
Call Ernie Broglio’s agent, you stupid schmuck
But Broglio is crying, though you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?



Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “The Tribe’s Luck Ain’t A-Changin'”

by Lou Carlozo

O come all ye Clevelanders, where e’er ye may roam
And admit that another World Series was blown
Your underwear’s soiled, your soaked to the bone
And Francona’s impatiently pacing
So you better start booing, hell you’re not number one,
And the Tribe’s luck ain’t a-changin’

Oh senators, congressmen, please hear the call:
Tell Chapman to grow up, and grow him some balls!
An inning’s relief and he can’t pitch at all
He should thank God for Game 7 rainin’
It’s too bad that he’s gone, his fastball and all,
But the Tribe’s luck, it ain’t a-changin’

The curse it is gone, the Goat it is cast
(And it’s about time, ‘cuz that damn thing had gas)
While annoying Joe Buck waits for one final chance
To sing Clayton Kershaw’s sweet praises
Mow Vin Scully’s lawn, Joe, if you’re fit to do that
And the Tribe’s luck, it ain’t a-changin’

 



To the Victors

By Millie Bovich

The team from Chicago’s North Side,
Three losses they could not abide.
Winning three in a row
With Cubbie mo-jo
And all of Ohio just cried!

Congratulations to C-H-I-C-A-G-O!

 



Watching the World Series from Dusseldorf

by Frank Thorwirth

At 6 to 6 the game was even
Rain delay, doubt in believing.
Go to sleep while eyes shut down?
Are you kidding me, clown?
A friend from Chicago on the phone,
What the f . . . Together we moan.
The 10th with only three more outs,
And believe it or not, no more doubts,
Hours away from Chicago’s North Side,
Sitting, standing awake, still with home pride.
It’s 5:38, it’s finally fixed,
Remember MEZ means “minus six”
Now we can go for an hour to bed,
with no more bad dreams —
The curse of the goat — it’s dead!

 



World Series Game Seven

by Hilary Barta

Birria for Everyone!

’Twas a plot that a lunatic wrote
With a knot firmly caught in his throat
Pop the bubbly, boys,
For the Cubs, make some noise
Took a lot, but we slaughtered the goat.

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