Browse all poems and songs in the 'Food' Category


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?



“Snack-Off” with Jose Abreu

by James Finn Garner

Things were so bad in Havana
That it ends with you havin’ a
Snack of your fake Haitian passport–
Heineken? Shoulda tried Special Export!

 

Jose Abreu testifies at the trial of the men who smuggled him to the US that he ate pages from his fake passport on the plane to Miami, washed down with a Heineken.



Scapegoated Roast

by the Village Elliott

For Mrs. O’Leary’ Cow and the 2016 World Champion Chicago Cubs

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow better hide:
Cubs fans now toddle down Near North Side,
Feeding schneid’s hungry ghost
With Burnt Scapegoat Cubs Roast;
Chitown’s hottest night since Old Town cried.

 



World Series Game Seven

by Hilary Barta

Birria for Everyone!

’Twas a plot that a lunatic wrote
With a knot firmly caught in his throat
Pop the bubbly, boys,
For the Cubs, make some noise
Took a lot, but we slaughtered the goat.



Staying Alive

by Hilary Barta

Back to Cleveland and Erie’s south shore,
To even the series … and more?
If Chicago’s a winner
Chief Wahoo, that grinner,
Will be heaving warm beer on the floor.

 

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Copyright 2007 Bardball.