by Hilary Barta
At Wrigley, a vine-tingling din
A wig-flipping, stein-raising win!
No more waiting and praying
Teeth grating, hair graying . . .
We did it, we’re finally IN!
by Stephen Jones
In Runs Per Game, the Marlins stank
Like a dead fish out of water.
Their slugging percentage was also rank,
So they fired Barry Bonds — as they oughtta.
by Jim Siergey
A million Dad Ricketts gave Trump-kins
He must think the faithful are bumpkins
With timing that stinks
it’s a crime that might jinx
the Cubbies to turn into pumpkins.
Copyright HiJiJi Productions.
All rights reserved and all wrongs righted.
by Michael X. Ferraro
The Cavs’ title notwithstanding,
poor Cleveland’s back to Clevelanding–
a fielding fiasco
by Carlos Carrasco
plus Pryor’s alleged grandstanding.
by James Finn Garner
As the end of his playing days appears,
I need to ask: Whither A-Rod?
There’ll be no other player left at his tier
On whose neck you can gleefully trod.
No gaffes to rehash, no mistakes to cheer,
No insinuations on his bod,
No schadenfreude thoughts to slur in your beer
That he’s a bum, a starlet, a fraud.
You won’t see Alex this time next year,
And the absence you’ll feel will be odd
Til you choose someone else, with your conscience so clear,
And condemn him like an Old Testament God.