Browse all poems and songs in the 'Scandals' Category


The Baseball Brawl

By Millie Bovich

It all started when the pitcher threw a ball too much inside,
And the batter kinda whispered, “This guy’s style I can’t abide.”

When it happened sure a second time in inning Number Three,
Thought the batter, more suspicious, “Did he try to dump on me?”

So the manager protesting gave the ump a nasty sign
And a number of his teammates jumped right up and crossed the line.

Then the bench began to empty and the team all rose as one–
That’s precisely as it happened when the donnybrook spun on.

The other bench rose also, running towards the pitcher’s mound,
And the grays and whites all tangled and a couple hit the ground.

Caps and mitts went flying, with the pitching mound a mess,
And the lefty center fielder came right in without duress,

Then the language got specific when the knuckles hit their mark,
And the melee just intensified that Sunday at the park.

There was shoving, there was pushing, there were words we can’t repeat.
Not a fan in Tiger home field was ensconced upon his seat.

We couldn’t tell was gray or white, but someone threw a punch,
And who knows where it landed in that sweaty, brawling bunch?

Then a fielder smacked a shortstop, and the rook from second base
Joined the brouhaha depositing his fist on catcher’s face,

But the fella at the organ played and never missed a note,
His talented musicality endeav’ring to promote.

The relievers in the bullpen thought they’d never get the call,
But they stopped their practice pitches and proceeded to the brawl.

The bag at first stood empty, he wouldn’t be left out,
Then he decked a tall right fielder, that’s what he was all about.

Sure, the crowd became unruly, they had come to watch a game.
“This ain’t hockey,” from the box seats, “but I like it just the same.”

They whistled and they hollered, it was all that you could hear,
And someone in the bleachers spilled a 32-ounce beer.

“Mayhem, this is mayhem,” said the lady in the hat,
But the brawlers kept on brawling, disregarding all of that.

The people in the grandstands screamed their epithets as well,
And what broke loose that afternoon was bloody, holy hell.

Someone bumped the hawkster selling dogs and frosty drink,
And the mustard pot spilled over and the place began to stink.

The player guarding second ran, his teammates to defend,
And the television spokesman yelled, “Who knows how this will end?”

Now third base too was vacant when the player there joined in,
And you couldn’t hear the ump above the tumult and the din.

So 40,000 fans were there and some were almost numb,
To witness what the papers said was pandemonium.

And years from now some Tiger fans will swear that they were there,
When the baseball brawl erupted with which nothing can compare.

Finally, yes, finally, the umps regained control,
With common sense and pleading and a trifle of cajole.

So it ended with no inj’ries and each player took his post
With no thought of his activities about which he could boast.

The fans regained composure and each settled in the sun,
And the record books recorded that the Detroit Tigers won!

 



Presidential Lox

by James Finn Garner

It’s tradition on Opening Day:
The Prez puts the first ball in play,
But with his miniscule mitts,
The Donald just quits
And tweets, “Baseball’s for losers anyway.”

 



Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “The Tribe’s Luck Ain’t A-Changin'”

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’

 



Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Subterranean Baseball Finance Blues”

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 . . .

 

 



Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Don’t Throw Four, It’s All Right”

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

 

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Copyright 2007 Bardball.