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Armageddon Somethin’ Goin’ On

by James Finn Garner

Some say we face the End Times,
With ice caps disappearing,
Financial pains and hurricanes,
And war with Russia nearing.

But th’ hills of Armageddon
Will look like fields of clover
If the Pale Hose and Cubs oppose
Each other in October.

We’ll see blue-faced yuppies pounce
On shirtless mokes with mullets,
The Bridgeport night with bombs alight,
and Bernie’s strafed with bullets.

The hordes of Satan’s army
And counterparts from Heaven
Will find that they’ve not much to save
If the Series goes to seven.

Posted 10/1/08

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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

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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

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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

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At The Old Ball Park

by Sheila Bernstein

“Peanuts, popcorn, cold beer,”
Shouts the voice of the vendor.
Of course, we’re at the ballpark
In all of its splendor.
It’s the crack of the bat,
The spit of the pitcher — well, sure, you get the picture.
Root for the home team.
It’s a shame if they lose.
What the heck, I’m tanked up on booze!
Baseball…there’s nothing to match.

Where am I now?
Wrigley Field, natch!

Posted 9/15/08