One hundred and four, nothing yet
One hundred and four, not a threat
All those years, win or lose
Always cheers, never boos
One hundred and four of regret

Hilary Barta was recently interviewed by the Chicago Tribune about the upcoming Roy Lichtenstein exhibition at the Art Institute of Chicago.  They didn’t mention his Cub fandom, but it’s obviously there between the lines.

With the Washington Nine on the rise
They’re the National League’s big surprise
Cole shoulda thunk twice
Before plunking Bryce
Now the Nats have fire in their eyes

Michael X. Ferraro is a TV writer/producer and author of Numbelievable: The Dramatic Stories Behind the Most Memorable Numbers in Sports History and Tased & Amused: The Shocking Poetic Recap of the 2010 Baseball Season.

The batter stepped up to the plate
We were hoping it wasn’t too late
A home run we needed
So we all cheered and pleaded
Would this victory be left up to fate?

The first pitch the ump called a ball
The next pitch was fouled off the wall
The third pitch went high
Fourth prompted a sigh
As strike two was the umpire’s call!

The next pitch was called ball three
Then the crowd shouted with glee
As the last pitch soared far
And hit a parked car
Giving out team the victory!

As the management turns a new leaf
The old fans are relearning their grief
As the ace, Dempster’s strong,
But then brace for what’s wrong,
And make plans to get burned in relief.

Hilary Barta is the chief cook and bottle-washer at LimerWrecks.

Like the time-honored herd made of turtle,
The White Sox see a race full of hurdle.
Sure, they’ve won by one run,
But rebuilding’s no fun,
Chelonian, they are, for certle.

As the management turns a new leaf
The old fans are relearning their grief
As the ace, Dempster’s strong,
But then brace for what’s wrong,
And make plans to get burned in relief.

Take the bats and the balls and the batters
Add the catcalls and hall-of-fame statters
Then the scouting reports
That drown out other sports –
It’s the national pastime that matters

For the best in limericks, discerning doggerelists always insist on Hilary Barta’s poems at LimerWrecks.

Arizona-tanned batters are belting
And throwers their catchers are pelting
With sliders and splitters
And striking out hitters
As the snow in the bleachers is melting.

Keep up with Hilary’s art at Surly Hack Attack and with his limericks at LimerWrecks.

The Hall of Fame’s honor and riches
Ron Santo deserved without pitches.
.      But denied for too long
.      Was the man’s well-earned song
By an old bunch of sons of bitches.

.

by Cary Donham

Ron’s a hero to folks diabetic
‘Cause on the field he was super-kinetic
.      Whether diving for balls
.      Or arguing calls
Or clicking his heels so aesthetic

At bat was the great Solomon Mitzvah
A clutch-hitting Jew from South Boston’s Yeshiva Finstah
He smashed the ball hard,
Straight out of the yard
But it bounced back and wounded his kishkah.