Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Shakespeare shaped the language.
Some say he invented it.
Wilde and Shaw spun expressions of unrelenting wit.
Whitman taught the mother tongue
How to sing for us;
Yeats scaled the beauty of her lonely peaks.
Joyce uncovered something new,
And so did Eliot.
But unlike Yogi, none of them could hit.
Taken from Ralph’s book, The Yogi Poems, available here.Â
1BÂ Â Art Sham-69-sky
2B  Ramóns Santiago
SSÂ Â Dickies Thon
3BÂ Â Woody English Beat
LFÂ Â Akil Baddoo Brains
CFÂ Â Jack Voigt-doids
RFÂ Â UK Subby Byas
CÂ Â Art New York Dolls
LHPÂ Â Mike Minor Threat, Joe Dead Kennedys
RHPÂ Â X-Ray Specs Roberts, Buzzcocks Capra
MGRÂ Â Bob Melvins
It’s the last letter
In pitching’s “struck”.
So you and I better
Wish Clayton good luck.
There were many others
Who could hurl through a bat.
Our band of K-brothers
Includes Koufax and Kaat.
(This poem excludes
Those facing the mound.
So sadly, Kailua’s
Kila Ka’aihue ain’t around.)
Whether lefty or righty
Pitchers stand on the hill.
Looking awfully mighty
They slurve that pill.
Dallas Keuchel, one fears,
Has thrown his last MLB K.
So in his final year(s)
Let’s honor Kershaw . . . OK?
As all us plebs pay the tax man,
You owners need to face some facts, man.
In suites with well-heeled sponsors and friends,
You claim your team pays civic dividends
Then you say you need new parks resplendent?
We fans should claim you as a dependent.
Taxes and slush are your basic income,
We ask for returns and you play dumb.
When voters at last come to their senses,
You scream and whine and talk moving expenses.
Pigs at the trough, courting our elected hoes —
Whatever way it’s adjusted is gross.
