Browse all poems and songs in the 'Scandals' Category

To Mike Francesa and Boomer Esiason–with no love

By Stuart Shea

If we let newborns have time with dads,
They’ll never develop the requisite ‘nads

To preside on AM radio courts
About how these softies are wrecking sports

By bringing in stuff like “love” and “hope”
To an audience raised on slackjawed dopes.



By Stuart Shea

I was watching a game
But got Penthouse instead.
A Chatwood? A Dinkelman? They’re not reassuring–
they both sound painful,
though perhaps alluring.
It’s just like the old days, when we’d annoonce
That the Sox had a player named Rusty Kuntz.


The Faulty Classic (World Series Game #2)

by Hilary Barta

There’s the throw that should not have been thrown
And the pop up that dropped like a stone
Though they’re pros, both the Birds
And the Hose have laid turds
And have shown they’re to sloppiness prone.


Next Time, Just Throw the Book at Him

by Hilary Barta

Ryan Dempster, at A-Rod, took aim
To indent the Yank player, or maim?
The low blow had a cost
For the thrower had lost,
Through contempt or through anger, the game.


Your required daily reading should include Hilary’s monster and noir limerick site, LimerWrecks.  Go now. Go, I said.

The Ryan Shames

by James Finn Garner

We know he’s a massive tool, Ryan.
At the same time, don’t be trying
To plunk A-Rod in the buttocks
To serve some greater sense of Justice.
He’s still the league’s sacrificial goat
And will surely miss the Hall of Fame vote,
A pitiable man whom no one will pity,
The most loathed non-pol in New York City.
We get it, you’re mad, but don’t be a punk.
You won’t become Batman in one single plunk.
And if it takes you five pitches to nail that poor schlub,
You’re just showing the world you’re still a Cub.


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Copyright 2007 Bardball.