Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
by James Finn Garner
When Kenny Williams told Maggs
To pack up his bags,
Hinting grit wasn’t one of his talents,
Kenny hadn’t the notion
That he’d set in motion
An era of Motown Magg-nificence.
Magglio got maligned
but later was signed
By Tiger whiz David Dombrowski.
Now he’s hitting like Gehrig,
While the White Sox are staring
over their shoulders, worried ’bout Kansas City.
Posted 7/25/07
I.
Jack Cust
Has become a must!
Beating pitchers into dust.
Jack Cust
Has earned the trust
Of Oakland fans with home-run lust.
Jack Cust
Is free of rust
Despite demotions so unjust.
II.
Billy Beane sussed that Jack Cust
Wouldn’t go bust.
But even he must be nonplussed
By the heroic thrust
Of Jack Cust.
by Stu Shea
Here’s to the men of Milwauk,
Who are making the baseball world talk.
There’s a Hardy man at short and a Gross in reserve,
While the pitching staff’s Sheets are quite billowy.
Bill Hall runs ’em down while Craig will give Counsell
And Prince Fielder’s body is pillowy.
Yes, the Brew Crew is back in Milwauk,
Giving all its opponents a shock.
The rotation has been solid despite their less-known names,
And Francisco Cordero slams doors.
Though the roof of their park still sports a few holes,
The beer is the only thing that pours.
Yes, the Brew Crew is ready to rock,
Now that Bud Selig’s name’s off the block.
By Stu Shea
Sure, they won the World Series just two years ago,
But that’s history, bro.
Get hip!
Chicago is slumping
The media’s dumping
And everyone’s jumping the ship.
The season’s turned into the crumbs of corn chips.
No one’s even surprised
At Guillen’s rude slips of the lip
For his team’s gotten older
And the value of aging, .230-ish sluggers is — zip.
Shouldn’t someone ring Kenny Williams’ bell?
Inform him, pray tell,
That after two years,
Even good socks can smell?
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.