Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Michael Cuddyer
Might hit the ball higher
On the moon, which has thinner air
Than Denvair.
Dustin Pedroia
Suffers from paranoia.
Though he doesn’t dislike him,
He’s sure the base runner wants to spike him.
Yoenis Cespedes
Doesn’t need us.
He keeps his cool by hitting homers
And ignoring racist tweets from gomers.
Miguel Cabrera
At the plate is a terra.
He’ll win a second Triple Crown
With his mates in Motown.
David Wright
Was expecting a big night
On his home field
With the rest of the Mets concealed.
Robinson Cano
Not too long ago
Was the picture of Yankee youth.
Now even he is long in the tooth.
Manny Machado,
If he were a flavor of gelado,
Would be, I’d bet,
Orioles black-and-orange sherbet.
Carlos Beltran
On the days the smelt ran
Would’ve rather been at the lake fishing
Than at the plate swishing.
Chris Sale
Is young, hearty and hale.
It’s the White Sox’s bats
That cripple his stats.
Joe Mauer
Has no need to feel dour.
He’ll get a trip to the Big Apple for frees
Without having to play the Yankees.
Jason Castro
Is the lone Astro.
He brings Bigfoot to mind
As the sole representative of his kind.
Bartolo Colon
Doesn’t climb the mound alone.
He relies on his teammates, and God,
And Big Pharma supporting his ancient bod.
Freddie Freeman
Must be some kind of he-man.
He’ll play in New York instead of Puig.
Too bad that now, I don’t give a fuig.
Justin Verlander
On the mound don’t meander.
He comes from Old Virginny
And his fastball isn’t finny.
Max Scherzer
While pitching couldn’t be terzer.
Blue eye or brown
He’ll mow your lineup down.
Sanchez (Anibal)
Might be a cannibal
The way he feasts on the gray matter
Of batters.
Doug Fister
Will get a blister
If he don’t lay off of all
Those fireballs.
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