Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
It was hard to watch unhinged nature–
I mean, to watch last night’s nightmare.
The Yankees had no collateral whatsoever,
Either on the mound or at bat–never.
And today, all the tabloids are offering
Aspirin and much finger-pointing.
Best scenario: win tonight–hooray!–
And then go back to Boston’s Fenway.
Would you call it a clubbing?
A mugging? A drubbing?
Updike fans might titter and
Coin the verb, “Hubbing.”
A jolting? A moulting?
Yankee fans sure found it revolting
But Mainers will recall days of old and
Cluck, “A-yuh, that there’s a Holting.”
A Cards fan, I
These playoffs
I decry
The Rockies collapse,
Cleveland implodes,
The Braves, too young,
NY and Boston hung.
Oh, now wait,
Two nights went right,
Oct. 1st and 2nd…
Good night
Postseason baseball
time for unlikely heroes
in the autumn chill
With effluent apologies to Franklin P. Adams:
These are the saddest of possible words:
“Bucky Fucking Dent.”
Fenway’s a punchbowl, this trio its turds:
“Bucky Fucking Dent.”
The gonfalon prick who bedevils my dreams,
Wretched ninth man from the most loathed of teams,
That lexical trio with its hateful phonemes:
“Bucky Fucking Dent.”