Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
A voice, clear-channel, fills the Midwestern night
As a teenager listens in bed.
Pete, Doggie, Griffey, Little Joe,
“And this one belongs to the Reds!”
The young man, driving back from work,
World Series dreams in his head.
Soto, Rijo, Sabo, Larkin,
“And this one belongs to the Reds!”
The Reds collapsed, immortals gone,
Votto and Gray in their stead.
Nearly 50 years on, Marty is gone. . .
This one belonged to the Reds.
Does “Grandpa” emit secret sauce?
The magic to be dugout boss?
The moneyèd Ricketts
Must sell those Cubs tickets
So sentiment might not help Ross.
Let the Ricketts go instead, let the Ricketts go instead.
After all, who paid for all those players to play?
It wasn’t lower management
And it wasn’t the fans
It was the Ricketts. It was the Ricketts.
Crushing our hero, like one million protesting pickets, silencing our voices, like sleeping crickets
But in the end, the chiefs always order up the final commands
And so it shall be known that in the history books of this season’s end that the shadowy figures above Rickettsville will send
A big heave ho to our mighty Joe
Whoosh! And out the door he’s shoved
Into a witch’s coven he is gloved and burned and scattered in a fine powdery ash, like stale popcorn in a blinding snow
Can we just let it be like several crushed cans of Old Style beer?
And accept the fact of…
Wait ‘til next year.
One cause of the Cubs doom this year?
Joe: They should’ve been drinking more beer
‘Stead of video games.
Now I’m not naming names
But fans now imbibe Everclear.
Such playoff success no coach had un-
Til the Cubbies hired Joe Maddon.
The team’s fate now sealed
He’ll leave Wrigley Field
Which will only vengeful hearts gladden.