by Edmund Conti
The Dodgers are bankrupt
And–here it comes,
Directly from Brooklyn–
“Dem Bums!”
The Real Reason for Your Slump
by James Finn Garner
Your sluggers are all whiffin’.
Is there anybody to reproach?
Why wait for their resolve t’ stiffen?
Better fire the hitting coach.
Most of the old game’s half-mental
(On Yogi’s turf do I encroach)
Best not get too intellectu’l,
Just fire the hitting coach.
The star himself’s not to blame–
That thought we can barely approach!
The real problem is old what’s-his-name,
Our replaceable hitting coach.
A Double Limerick of Cubbie Grief
by Cary Donham
Doug Davis throws nothing but junk,
Zambrano acts like a punk,
.   And Quade the boss
.   Looks like he’s lost–
Another Cubs’ season is sunk.
Are Ricketts and Hendry still believing
While fans in the bleachers are grieving?
.   ‘Cause the team on the field
.   Is again getting killed.
Who can blame Ron Santo for leaving????
Prince Albert in a Can
by Stuart Shea
If Albert Pujols is merely mortal,
Who will be our heroic portal?
You may chuckle, you may chortle–
But people need an idol.
No longer great, but merely good,
Ain’t hit like St. Lou thinks he should,
But if free agency comes–it could–
The wave of suitors? Tidal.
Ozzie-Mandius
by “larry”
I met a traveler from a twinkie land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in U.S. Cellular Field. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Kenny Williams, GM of GMs:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
This was originally published on the SBNation blog, South Side Sox.