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


Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Ballad of a Cringe Man”

by Lou Carlozo

You walk into the booth with your microphone in your hand
The barflies see you on TV: “Oh crap, not him again!”
You smugly shrug it off but you don’t understand
Compared to Ernie Harwell, man, you suck
And the fans of baseball hate you, but you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

The Bleacher Bums are reeling, they’re about to lose their lunch
You’re the brat pre-adolescent everybody wants to punch
Even Harry Caray gets his undies in a bunch
From his grave I heard him moaning, “What the f*ck?”
Perhaps you’d raise a Bud to him, but you don’t know what that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

You flash your trusty press pass and you saunter to the booth
It’s time to practice color, but it’s black-and-white in truth
You may be Jack Buck’s son, but chances are he raised a goof
Perhaps you’ll get run over by a truck
The viewers want Bob Uecker, but you don’t know who that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Here’s a Series match-up that we all would die to see:
You against the Hot Dog Man calling Game 1 on TV
The Hot Dog Man sees ironies and humor you can’t see
And should you crack a joke, we’d say “Good luck”
We’d send you to the minors, but you don’t know where that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Somewhere there’s kid who wants to call the games like you
“Well, kid, here’s how it works, I’m gonna to tell you what to do:
Beat to death a Clayton Kershaw hero trope or two
Until his arm goes lamer than a duck.”
It’s time to turn the sound down, but you don’t care why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Now you ignore the Cubs fan
Shouting the word “UGH!”
The Indian fans are flustered
Crying in their mugs
And you say, “What’s the matter?”
And they scream back, “Earlplugs!
“Give us some or else we’ll yell, ‘Go home!’”
The umps would call you “out,” but you can’t see why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

So get yourself a job, you can mow Vin Scully’s lawn
Or maybe Theo Epstein needs himself a worthless pawn
Too bad you can’t be traded for a pitcher with no arm
Call Ernie Broglio’s agent, you stupid schmuck
But Broglio is crying, though you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?



Rogers Hornsby, Off-Season Poet

by Raphael Badagliacca

What do I do in Winter
When there’s no baseball
People want to know
Just one thing
I stare out the window
And wait for Spring.

 



Family Celebration

by the Village Elliott

For My Great-Uncle Art

Pleased Cubs fans celebrate victory,
Happy for part of my family:
Mom, who’s from near North Side
Tempered Dad’s Redbird pride,
My St. Louis baseball legacy.

Never had Chitown antipathy
All pervasive in Dad’s family.
Cubs were Mom’s first team,
Cuddly in the extreme,
Part of my gonfalon legacy.

I’ve learned, suggest no Cub fan forgets:
“Fickle Destiny Oft Fails Fans, Vets.”
Fate slammed ’68’s door
On my Cards’ destined score
And “eighty-sixed” the’86 Mets.

 



Autumn’s New Retirees

by James Finn Garner

Before the Fall gets underway,
Let us doff our caps and say
Goodbye to those who’ll junk their cleats,
Leave the park and walk the streets.

Super-versatile Angel Chone
Will now be the utility man at home.
Grant Balfour, hothead Aussie,
Can only fume when his wife gets bossy.

Phil Humber’s vaunted perfect game
Was his sole stat worth noting (such a shame).
The Prince has trouble with his neck–
He’ll inspire no more fear on-deck.

Tex and A-Rod will leave the Yanks
And all their fans will mumble thanks,
While Raf Soriano has called an end
To tell war stories, a fine fireman.

But let’s not forget the other guys,
Young tyros once, with starry eyes,
Who gave their all but somehow missed
The general manager’s call-up list.

They’re just as key to the game as any
Adam LaRoche or Brad Penny.
Talent, drive and dreams they bid,
Just like us when we were kids.

 



Waterlooed

by the Village Elliott

For last night’s ninth inning loss, Cardinals 3, Giants 2

During Jints’ pitching change interlude,
Team’s reliever preemptively booed.
Home crowd’s seen it before,
When the Cards tied the score–
Team’s ninth inning’s again “Waterlooed”.

 

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