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The Flight of Goose Gossage

by Sandy Marshall

Goose Gossage,
Goose Gossage,
You are your own Bossage,
You have your own mitt that you sign and Embossage.

Goose Gossage,
Goose Gossage,
You always will Flossage,
Your round rolling stone will ne’er gather no Mossage.

Goose Gossage,
Goose Gossage,
You boot up with DOSsage,
You always predict the results of coin Tossage.

Goose Gossage,
Goose Gossage,
Your car drives with Nossage,
And you play like you dance, like the winged Bob Fossage.

(Sandy’s site, with his comedy teammates: Schadenfreude.net)

Posted 8/3/07

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Ode to the ‘Pen

by Hart Seely

Farnsworth, Myers, Proctor: O, doctor.
How low can our spirits go?
We’re leading by nine in the last of the sixth.
And we’ll probably have to use Mo.

Farnsworth, Myers, Proctor, O, doctor.
Somebody pass me the Drano.
Our nine-run lead is now down to two.
And, O, God! Here comes Vizcaino.

(Hart’s site: It is High, It is Far, It is…caught)

Posted 8/1/07

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The Voice of God

by James Finn Garner

 As I sat in Section 660
Above the field where Gehrig trod,
I cursed the Yankees’ inept play
And muttered grudging praise to A-Rod.

Then a booming voice erupted,
Rattling beams and shaking sod.
Had sanity up and left me?
Or did I just hear the voice of God?

All eyes sought out the owner’s box
Where George S. kept his shrimp-stuffed bod.
What revelation would be uttered that
Had this crowd’s undies in a wad?

There stood Rocket Roger to declaim
(Feel free whenever to applaud)
That he’d weighed golf versus sleeping late,
And deigned to give the Yanks the nod.

“Hooray!” bellowed the drunken crowd,
Mouths agape like fresh-caught cod.
Yet I sat there with no response,
Unmoved, unsure, ungaped, unawed.

The feeling grew within me
With more than one fantod,
That this mercenary egomaniac
Wouldn’t rescue this year’s squad.

He’d win a game or three and show
His skills were not a fraud,
Then retire again, then change his mind,
A greedy, charmless, pumped-up clod.

Though many things, George S. is not
A cowardly tightwad,
But bills come due. Next year our costs
Will feel quite like a doctor’s prod.

 

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The Return of the Rocket

by Stu Shea

So Roger’s coming back at last.

Be still my heart that beats so fast!

Forgive me if I seem to joke

At Clemens’ latest blow of smoke.

 

The baseball world stands, mouth agape

As Rocket Man adjusts his cape.

Forgive me if this time I sit

And disregard this silly shit.

 

It’s not as if he’ll join my team,

So why should I, like others, scream,

“Roger’s back! Oh, praise the Lord!”

If my team his paycheck can’t afford?

 

“He wants a ring! He loves the game!”

The song remains fore’er the same.

“It’s not the money, not the perks,

It’s ’cause he loves his baseball, jerks!”

 

So Big George forks up mega-mills

For 15 visits to the hill.

(He doesn’t have to hang around

Those days when he’s not on the mound.)

 

His “veteran leadership” and arm

Calm Torre’s typical alarm.

But is it right to pay and pay

A guy who plays the game this way?

 

No matter what his season holds,

I’m waiting til next year unfolds,

And he retires, the spoiled dunce,

And keeps a promise just this once.

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The Silver Lining, Or At Least The Yankees Lost

My wife has up and left me,

Once the object of her lust.

Now she’s hitting the clubs with a biker named Dubs,

–But at least the Yankees lost.

An audit’s hit my company.

My future’s bitten the dust.

You can forward my mail to a federal jail.

–But at least the Yankees lost.

We’re spreading our democracy,

Whatever may be the cost,

Or whether the others are given their druthers.

–But at least the Yankees lost.

Atmosphere’s been heating up,

Melting the permafrost.

The polar bears lately can’t count on their safety.

–But at least the Yankees lost.

Famine, wars, disease and hate–

Our poor world is tempest-toss’d.

I cannot tell you why we must suffer and die.

–But at least the Yankees lost.

Trekking to a mountain wise man,

I registered my disgust.

“Dear pilgrim,” said he, “what will be will be

–But at least the Yankees lost!!”