Browse all poems and songs in the 'Scandals' Category


How Do You Like Them Apple Watches?

by Michael X. Ferraro

The Yankees are p.o.’d as heck
At the way the Red Sox use tech.
It’s plain wrong to steal signs
Using Interweb vines!
Or is it? asks Bill Belichick.

 

Michael X. Ferraro has gotten paid to come up with nicknames for Shaquille O’Neal, write sports rants for Dennis Miller, and generate outrageous tabloid fodder for the Weekly World News, among other, much crappier jobs. Check out his hilarious football satire, Circus Catch. 



TV and the Twilight (Strike) Zone

by Stephen Jones

I watched in disbelief.
I can’t get no relief –
From an umpire whose eyesight
Is worse than a badger’s.

Here quoth the baseball,
Its wings made of leather:
“Balls are strikes and
Strikes are balls. Evermore.”

It was then, in my chair,
That I yawned tired air.
I dropped the remote,
And the room did darken . . .

.     And a carny voice did harken:
.     “Hur-ray! Hur-ray!
.     An instant baseball fan solution –
.     Coming soon, to your television.

.     “Fans – are you tired of bad calls?
.     Does the umpire need a vision check?
.     Do you think the strike zone
.     Moves around too much?

.     “Well then, have no fear –
.     The solution, it’s right here.
.     It’s called ‘Auto-Strike’ –
.     The new e-lec-tronic game in town.

.     “So, say goodbye to tradition
.     And the curse of bad vision.
.     ‘Auto-Strike’ will cure
.     Each and every umpire call!”

.     (Disclaimer: The Salem’s Lot Nine
.     Will now miss its boo-and-hiss time
.     And the ever-popular fan favorite –
.     Burning umpires at the stake.)

Here quoth the baseball,
Its wings made of leather:
“Balls are strikes and
Strikes are balls. Evermore.”

I shifted in my chair,
Of the game unaware,
And continued my reverie
Of balls, strikes . . . and late-night TV.

.      Laughter came from off-screen,
.     From an audience of the dream,
.     And there was a smirking host
.     Who thought he was being clever:

.     “Just to be clear . . . the ball is scanned,
.     Just like cereal or a country ham
.     Off a bar code at a grocery store?
.     And what would happen then,

.     “If it didn’t correctly scan in?
.     This is baseball, not a market,
.     And you just can’t call out:
.     ‘Hey . . . price check, aisle four.’”

Here quoth the baseball,
Its wings made of leather:
“Balls are strikes and
Strikes are balls. Evermore.”

It was almost 2:00 am when I awoke.
An infomercial was spewing smoke
About saving me time and money . . .
And dreams replacing reality.

.     “Yessir, yessir . . . get it now, get it here.
.     From those folks who brought you
.     ‘The Pocket Baseball’ and ‘One-Pitch Wonder’,
.     And the ever-popular ‘One That Got Away’.”

Even as I arose and shook my head
And stumbled off to bed,
The sonorous voice behind me said:

“Balls are strikes and
Strikes are balls. Evermore.”

 



Shut-0ut Sh0ut-0ut

by James Finn Garner

The R0yals’
P00r t0ils
Have am0unted t0 n0 m0re than bupkis

All these g00se eggs
Just the last dregs
0f a seas0n f0r all fans t0 miss

This year’s wild card
0dds are t00 hard
T0 0verc0me such a debacle

And I simply cann0t
Insert 45 naughts
With0ut s0me kind 0f d0ggerel miracle.

 



Tainted Bud

by the Village Elliott

Once the Hall was for those who were studs
Whose names were not dragged through the mud.
Seems no longer the case
With Bud Selig in place,
Sets new precedent with tainted Bud.

 



The Canning of Mr. Met

by James Finn Garner

With apologies (not really needed) to Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in a season’s run
.   By the characters ’round Citi Field
The yardbird gramps will loiter on ramps
.   And tell you to keep your eyes peeled.
The borough of Queens has staged horrible scenes
.   But the horriblest of them yet
Was a dark night in May, with the team put away,
.   We got flipped off by Mr. Met.

Now Mr. Met, let no one forget,
.   Has been around since the Amazin’s began.
The face of the team had a smile that beamed
.   Brighter than any real Gotham man.
So when miserable play, day after day,
.   Leaves the line twixt patience and torture blurred
It should be no surprise that even this guy
.   Is reduced to giving the bird.

The Brewers had bombed ol’ Jacob deGrom
.   And, heckled by some random slob,
Mr. Met let loose with a low-flying goose
.   And now is out of a job.
When you see him there, in the crowd in Times Square,
.   Taking snaps for tips with Iowa teens
With Elmo and Kermit, slow down and permit
.   Him to reflect on what might have been.

 

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Copyright 2007 Bardball.