by Stuart Shea
Can the Sox play tough?
White indicates purity…
Are dirty suits allowed?
If only Swisher
Struck out more often…but then,
Truth ain’t poetry.
The old roar is gone…
No more sneaking cigarettes.
It’s a young man’s turn.
It is difficult
To keep from strangling youth with
Mauer ain’t sour,
He’s heretofore banished from
Those bad Twins hurlers.
By Millie Bovich
Dear boys of summer, cheeks of tan,
We’re listed now “they also ran”.
Who would’ve, could’ve thought last spring
The pennant home they would not bring?
But pitch relief and you will find
Hitters of another kind.
Our big pay bats could not produce
And as result, too bad, we “loose”.
But thanks for summer’s fun and wins.
The fourteen season soon begins!
For baseball we’ve become as slaves
And hope the next opponents shave!
Only a cad would say exactly how many years Millie has been a Tigers fan, but we’re betting it’s longer than any of you.
by Stephen Jones
At eighteen he committed himself
to baseball . . . for fifty years.
Detroit should be grateful.
He didn’t fail stadium fans –
their team’s porous bats did
like unidentified blips
on baseball’s radar screen.
Mr. Leyland deserved better.
by James Finn Garner
Is beloved from Grosse Ile to Ignace to Zeeland.
All across the mitten
Tiger fans are still smitten.
by Hilary Barta
In Boston they shave with a cleaver
Being tossed on a wave of beard fever
But poor Motown is shattered
By big blows they were battered
All is lost with no saving reliever.
With Halloween approaching, you need to check out all the limericks at Hilary’s blog, LimerWrecks.