Posted on

Land of 10,000 Chokes

by James Finn Garner

Defeating the Twins isn’t easy
In that convention hall they call a dome,
But who could foresee the series would be
Like the Vandals’ destruction of Rome?

The White Sox wasted the season.
The grinders’ swings turned to hacks.
So thoroughly owned were the Sox, they’re showin’
Herm Schneider rug burns on their backs.

Now the players can mutter and grumble
While the Cubbies are showered with cheers.
A Subway Series?  Not this time, dearies.
Check back in another 100 years.

Posted 9/26/08

Posted on

There’s a Riot Going On

By Stuart Shea

Out of nowhere came The Riot
To beef up the Cubbie diet
Adding speed and walks to a slow, old, hacking club.

Maybe he’s no budding star,
But he’s done quite well so far,
And the fans enjoy his spirit as a Cub.

In the talk of Harden, Soto,
And Kosuke Fukudomo,
No one speaks of Theriot as MVP.

But without his OBP,
Where would the offense be?
There’d be no RBIs for Big D. Lee.

Uh, or A-Ram.

Posted 9/24/08

Posted on

Don’t Try This at Home, Dude

By Stuart Shea

You can’t cut the lawn
Like Carlos Z. pitches.
You’d lose hold of the mower
And get 80 stitches.

You can’t do your taxes
Like Carlos Z. throws.
You’d ball up receipts
And punch your own nose.

You can’t do brain surg’ry
Like Carlos Z. hurls.
Your patients would die
While you did angry twirls.

But there’s nothing like watching the dervish in blue
When he harnesses everything that he can do.
Just ask HOU.

Posted 9/17/08

Posted on

Ned Yost, Done Like Rump Roast

by James Finn Garner

Milwaukee’s head honcho Ned Yost
Led his teams to October–almost.
When CC Sabathia
Didn’t prove a pa-NA-cea,
Ned’s career with the Brewers was toast.

Posted 9/16/08

Posted on

Three Fates and Yer Out!

By James Finn Garner

As ten decades of failure concluded
(The odds against which—mighty steep!),
The Three Fates sat in the Wrigley bleachers,
One last great appointment to keep.

There Clotho with distant expression
Spun thread from her distaff with ease,
The flaxen content of life in her hands,
Her scorecard spread over her knees.

Her sister Lachesis sat by her
To measure each thread to its length,
Her face a smear of SPF 50
As the sun beat down in its strength.

Lastly, Atropos, peddler of doom,
Whose shears sever man’s vital thread,
Was letting the line pile up at her feet
And glassily staring ahead.

What could cause the Fates’ dereliction,
Prolonging the Cubs’ misery?
What forces conspire to cruelly delay
The end of this sad century?

Beside the gals sat die-hard Bacchus,
With grapes twined in his Cubs visor.
“You can’t leave now—we can still score some runs!
Hey Beer Man—bring four more Budweisers!”

Posted 9/12/08