Browse all poems and songs in the 'Fans' Category


Cubs Win, I Lose

by Hilary Barta

Of drubbings my writing once oozed
The Cubs’ sorry plight I abused
Now they’ve won and don’t suck
And I’ve run out of luck
My club’s reached the heights, I’m de-mused.

 

Hilary Barta runs the essential film-noir-and-monster-movie limerick website, LimerWrecks



Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Edwin from the North Country”

by James Finn Garner

If you’re traveling in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the fans’ behinds
Remember him for all the hits he had there
Edwin Encarnacion did his time

If you got used to the Jays winning games
By knocking hits and flipping bats
Saunders is gone, and Navarro the same
And Edwin’s now in Cleveland, swatting gnats

I’m a-wondering if he’ll remember them at all
The fans who came to see him play
As they drink and fight and lament
Watching Melvin Upton flail away

If you’re traveling in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the fans’ behinds
Remember him for all the hits he had there
Edwin Encarnacion did his time

 



Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Just Like Tom Ricketts’ Blues”

by Jim Siergey

When you’re lost in the rain in Cleveland
And it’s Game Seven too
And your confidence has failed
‘Cuz your bullpen didn’t pull you through
Don’t make any more errors
Or Fate will be laughin’ at you
You got some hungry fans there
And they all bleed Cubbie Blue . . .

Now if you see J. Heyward
Please tell him thanks a lot
He could not hit
But what he did won’t be forgot
‘Cuz he built up their strength
To go out and take another shot
He was the motivatin’ factor
behind them givin’ all that they got

 



Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “If Not For Trout”

by James Finn Garner

If not for Trout
The Angels would be a shame
Wouldn’t win a single game
The bottom would drop out
If not for Trout

If not for Trout
Big A would be humdrum
Fans might even watch the Bums
Talk about a drought
If not for Trout

If not for Trout, Pujols would quit
Scioscia would get the heave
Escobar would be hitting the bricks
They’d be lost if not for Steve

If not for Trout
They would be Triple A
Simmons would beg for a trade
A stinking mess throughout
If not for Trout

 



Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Ballad of a Cringe Man”

by Lou Carlozo

You walk into the booth with your microphone in your hand
The barflies see you on TV: “Oh crap, not him again!”
You smugly shrug it off but you don’t understand
Compared to Ernie Harwell, man, you suck
And the fans of baseball hate you, but you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

The Bleacher Bums are reeling, they’re about to lose their lunch
You’re the brat pre-adolescent everybody wants to punch
Even Harry Caray gets his undies in a bunch
From his grave I heard him moaning, “What the f*ck?”
Perhaps you’d raise a Bud to him, but you don’t know what that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

You flash your trusty press pass and you saunter to the booth
It’s time to practice color, but it’s black-and-white in truth
You may be Jack Buck’s son, but chances are he raised a goof
Perhaps you’ll get run over by a truck
The viewers want Bob Uecker, but you don’t know who that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Here’s a Series match-up that we all would die to see:
You against the Hot Dog Man calling Game 1 on TV
The Hot Dog Man sees ironies and humor you can’t see
And should you crack a joke, we’d say “Good luck”
We’d send you to the minors, but you don’t know where that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Somewhere there’s kid who wants to call the games like you
“Well, kid, here’s how it works, I’m gonna to tell you what to do:
Beat to death a Clayton Kershaw hero trope or two
Until his arm goes lamer than a duck.”
It’s time to turn the sound down, but you don’t care why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Now you ignore the Cubs fan
Shouting the word “UGH!”
The Indian fans are flustered
Crying in their mugs
And you say, “What’s the matter?”
And they scream back, “Earlplugs!
“Give us some or else we’ll yell, ‘Go home!’”
The umps would call you “out,” but you can’t see why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

So get yourself a job, you can mow Vin Scully’s lawn
Or maybe Theo Epstein needs himself a worthless pawn
Too bad you can’t be traded for a pitcher with no arm
Call Ernie Broglio’s agent, you stupid schmuck
But Broglio is crying, though you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

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Copyright 2007 Bardball.