by Lou Carlozo
O come all ye Clevelanders, where e’er ye may roam
And admit that another World Series was blown
Your underwear’s soiled, your soaked to the bone
And Francona’s impatiently pacing
So you better start booing, hell you’re not number one,
And the Tribe’s luck ain’t a-changin’
Oh senators, congressmen, please hear the call:
Tell Chapman to grow up, and grow him some balls!
An inning’s relief and he can’t pitch at all
He should thank God for Game 7 rainin’
It’s too bad that he’s gone, his fastball and all,
But the Tribe’s luck, it ain’t a-changin’
The curse it is gone, the Goat it is cast
(And it’s about time, ‘cuz that damn thing had gas)
While annoying Joe Buck waits for one final chance
To sing Clayton Kershaw’s sweet praises
Mow Vin Scully’s lawn, Joe, if you’re fit to do that
And the Tribe’s luck, it ain’t a-changin’
by James Finn Garner
Rays are in the basement
Ain’t got the tin to spend
Braves are in a new tent
Paid for by the government
Oakland’s in the same boat
Should they stay? Should they go?
Big pay day’s in San Jose
But for now they’re gonna stay in East Bay
Look out kid
Ya done bin outbid
Owners cry the poor mouth, doin’ it again
Wanna build skyboxes to party with their rich friends
Some day you gotta stop but you don’t know when
Season ticket costs eleven grand, you only got ten . . .
by Jim Siergey
It ain’t no use to pitch and wonder why, babe
It don’t matter, anyhow
An’ it ain’t no use to bitch and holler, “Why, Babe?”
You just don’t throw ’em now
When your skipper crows, “Put that man on base,”
No more of your efforts will go to waste
The ump will just signal that batter on
Don’t throw four, it’s all right
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.