Browse all poems and songs in the 'Food' Category

No Stomach

By Hilary Barta

Defeating the Cards isn’t easy
So much so the Cubs went all squeeze-y
The suicides worked
Garcia looked irked
Though later he claimed he felt queasy.


The Passion of Sean Rodriguez

By James Finn Garner

You think all your dues’ve been paid
You’d love a post-season parade
But Jake Arrieta
Could not have been better —
What to do except punch Gator-Ade?


RIP: A Sixty-Year Lament

by Robert Hilliard

They’re gone.
Pete, Pee-wee and Jackie
entertaining the
knothole gang
by crashing into walls,
hustling infield rollers,
and stealing home with a bang.

They’re gone.
Dolph and Cookie and Leo.
No Lip to the umps
No soda or peanuts or crackerjacks.
No cries from the
twenty-five cent bleachers seats
“Wait till next year!”
No more we’ll be chumps.

And Hoyt ain‘t hoit anymore.

They’re gone.
Van Lingle the Mungo and Sandy the K
and Campy, Newk, Preacher
and Mickey, who dropped the third out,
kicking the game away.

Even after Ralph hurled
the Shot Heard ‘Round the World
we were soothed by the guy in the catbird seat.
Red’s voice helped take away the heat.

There was sweet-swinging Duke
and Gil’s four in a game.
Why aren’t they
in baseball’s Hall of Fame?

We can still boo the Giants,
but it just ain’t the same.

Waiting year after year
for a moment delirious,
to root for the trolley boys,
at last, in 1955,
in the Woild Serious.

Finally, some fame,
more games to be won,
big houses to tally.
And the money ain’t lame.
But poof, they were gone,
a pox on O’Malley.

A pseudo-team now in LA
copping a cherished name.
An usurper.
A pretender.
A thief.
For shame!  For shame!

It’s gone.
They’re gone.
Rest In Peace Ebbets Field.
Rest In Peace Brooklyn Dodgers.


Miller and Tex

by Hart Seely

With apologies to Robert Frost

Some say the team will end with Miller,
Some say with Tex.
From what I’ve seen of bullpen filler,
I’d much prefer a quicker killer.
But if we’re bound to perish next,
I think I know enough of fate
To say that for destruction, Tex
Is not as great
As oral sex.


An Ode for Dave Dombrowski

by James Finn Garner

For all the effort
Restoring glory
The October result’s
The entire story

A franchise reborn
Butts in the seats
Traffic downtown
Pennant repeats

Strong arms and bats–
Some for the ages!–
Might end up mere stats
On old dusty pages

Without a ring
You’re as good as dead
When the Pizza King
Shouts, “Off with his head!”


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Copyright 2007 Bardball.