Browse all poems and songs in the 'St. Louis Cardinals' Category

All-Star Clerihews #3

By Hugh Encrye

Adam Wainwright
Played the “unwritten rules” right,
Grooved the Captain a pitch to hit,
Then found himself in a world of trouble.

Miguel Cabrera
The greatest hitter of our era.
Pitch the pill behind his back
And still he’ll give that ball a whack.

Mike Trout
Didn’t hit one out,
But a double and a triple
Ain’t kibble.

Tales from Cardinal Town

By Alan P. Rudy

Matt Adams, Matt Adams, how do you mash?
“I crush and I bash and I slash, so mash!”
Matt Adams, Matt Adams, you’re so gritty.
“I am that,” says the man nicknamed Big City

To minors, to minors to call up a thrower
Cards again, Cards again, find a flamethrower
To AAA, to AA, to call up an 8 or a 9.
Cards again, Cards again, not nearly so fine.

Ballad of Bitter Words

by John Kieran

Why, Mr. Terry, oh! why did you ever
Chortle the query that made Brooklyn hot?
Just for the crack that you thought was so clever,
Now you stand teetering right on the spot!
Vain was your hope they forgave or forgot;
Now that you’re weary and bowed with fatigue,
Here is the drama and this is the plot:
Brooklyn, dear fellow, is still in the league.

Sir, if they can they will blithely dissever
Giants in segments unequal or not.
Homicide, Bill, is their plan and endeavor;
Staring on Ryan and Jackson and Ott,
You they expect to reduce to a blot.
La guerre a la mort! (Or in German “Der Krieg!”)
Vengeance they want to the ultimate jot:
Brooklyn, dear fellow, is still in the league.

Detroit awaits you? Says Lopez: “Ah, never!”
Pennant for Terry? Says Casey: “What rot!”
Using your scorn as a club or a lever,
Brooklyn will labor and chisel and swat.
Prize in the bag — now it may go to pot!
(Furnish sad music by Haydn or Grieg),
Bill, you won’t like it a bit or a lot;
Brooklyn, dear fellow, is still in the league.


At the start of the 1934 season, NY Giants manager Bill Terry made the off-hand jab about his local opposition: “Brooklyn? Are they still in the league?” The Dodgers used it as a rallying cry and kept the 1933 champs from repeating, beating the Giants down the stretch in dramatic fashion and helping the Cardinals take the pennant.

Published in the New York Times, September 29, 1934

Dizzy Gunga Dean

by Grantland Rice

You may talk of throwing arms that come up from Texas farms,
With a hop on the fast one that is smoking;
But when it comes to pitching that will keep the batter twitching
I can slip you in a name that’s all past joking;
For in old St. Louis town, where they called him once a clown,
There’s a tall and gangling figure on the scene,
And of all that Red Bird crew, there’s one bloke that pulls ‘em through,
Just a fellow by the name of Gunga Dean.

It is Dean – Dean – Dean –
You human coil of lasso – Dizzy Dean!
If it wasn’t for old Dizzy
They’d be worse than fizzy-wizzy,
Come on and grab another – Gunga Dean.

He told ‘em what he’d do, and they labeled him a screw,
Just a blasted mug who took it out in boasting;
And one day they sent him back to the cattle and the shack,
With a fair amount of panning and of toasting;
But the tall and gangling gawk, with a fast ball like a hawk,
Keeps them standing on their heads along the green—
Brings back color to the game with a flash of crimson flame,
So I’m slipping it along to Gunga Dean—

Yes – it’s Dean – Dean – Dean –
He’s a beggar with a bullet through your spleen.
Though at times some bat has flayed you,
By the Texas sun that made you,
You’re a better man than bats are, Dizzy Dean!


Published in the New York Sun, July 20, 1934, in the middle of the remarkable year of the Gashouse Gang, under the headline “Dizzy Gunga Dean (If Mr. Kipling Doesn’t Mind)”

On First Looking Into Nash’s “The Panther”

by Pat McCaughey

Bob Gibson is like Jim Palmer.
Except he’s less calmer.
Should behind you McCarver crouch,
Prepare to say Ouch.
Better yet, if pitched to by Gibson,
Keep your ribsin.



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