Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Biceps like well-tempered iron,
Frightening to see,
Was Ted Kluszewski.
No shirtsleeves wore he,
Did Ted Kluszewski.
And if you asked him why, he’d
Grind you into loose tea.
In his day he was feared,
The toughest man on the Ponderosa.
But today his muscles are matched
By Sammy Sosa
And Mark DeRosa.
(A love song inspired by Chicago’s very own Plain White T’s)
Hey there, Mark Buehrle,
Don’t you go to New York City.
It’s one thousand miles away,
And Mark you throw your curve so pretty,
Yes you do,
Dice-K can’t shine as bright as you,
I swear it’s true,
Hey there, Mark Buehrle,
Don’t you worry about the distance,
We’ll make up the gap in no time,
Like LeBron against the Pistons.
Close your eyes.
Listen to my voice you’ll win the Cy,
And then we’ll cry
Oh it’s what you do to me,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
What you do to me.
Hey there, Mark Buehrle,
I know sometimes you’re hit hard,
But I believe in you to fight back
Like you do cuz you’re a star,
We’ll have it good,
We’ll beat the Cubs down like we should,
They aren’t that good.
Hey there, Mark Buehrle.
How I love to watch you play,
The way you get the ball and throw it
Whether at home or away.
You give it all,
No matter how far that we fall.
You give it all,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
I know you grew up with the Cards,
but they’ve got Albert and other stars.
The south side’s where you’re loved the most by far.
Your friends may well make fun of you,
but we’ll just laugh along because we know
That none of them have felt this way.
Mark Buehrle, I can promise you
That by the time we get through,
The league will never ever be the same,
And you’re to blame.
Hey there, Mark Buehrle,
You be good and don’t be foolish.
Four more years and sixty million,
We’ll get back to making history like we do.
You’ll know it’s all because of you.
You can do whatever you want to.
Hey there, Mark Buehrle, here’s to you,
This ones for you.
Oh sign on the dotted line,
Oh sign on the dotted line,
Oh sign on the dotted line,
Oh sign on the dotted line,
On the dotted line.
7/5/07
Brett on, George Brett.
Pine tar would do
But that was never you.
Instead . . .
You chose Skoal.
Brett on, George Brett.
The homers you’d hit
And we’d never forget
As they’d land in the fountains of Kansas City’s Mitts.
BRETT ON, George Brett.
You signed a card one night
At a Mizzou game at Hearnes Center,
That’s right.
Bud Black was there too.
But you . . .
Were the main draw.
Yes you.
BRETT ON!
Posted on 6/29/07.
By Stu Shea
Sure, they won the World Series just two years ago,
But that’s history, bro.
Get hip!
Chicago is slumping
The media’s dumping
And everyone’s jumping the ship.
The season’s turned into the crumbs of corn chips.
No one’s even surprised
At Guillen’s rude slips of the lip
For his team’s gotten older
And the value of aging, .230-ish sluggers is — zip.
Shouldn’t someone ring Kenny Williams’ bell?
Inform him, pray tell,
That after two years,
Even good socks can smell?
O give us a home
Where no buffalo roam
Under tarp by the baggie we play,
Where echos are heard
While Punto’s at third,
And at first hear JM say, “Eh.”
Dome, Dome for the deranged,
Why ever play baseball outside?
Fly balls disappear,
and hit speakers we fear.
Those carpet burns sure hurt when you slide.
Published 6/14/07