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Ozzie-Mandius

by “larry”

I met a traveler from a twinkie land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in U.S. Cellular Field. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Kenny Williams, GM of GMs:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

This was originally published on the SBNation blog, South Side Sox.

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Dick Allen and the Ebonistics, “Echoes of November”

Dick Allen, who played for 15 years with the Phillies (Rookie of the Year, 1964) and White Sox (MVP, 1972), was also a fine soul singer. This song was released in 1968 on the Groovey Grooves label. His group once performed at halftime during a 76ers game. From Wikipedia, here’s a review of the performance from the Philadelphia Inquirer:

“Here came Rich Allen. Flowered shirt. Tie six-inches (152 mm) wide. Hiphugger bell-bottomed pants. A microphone in his hands. Rich Allen the most booed man in Philadelphia from April to October, when Eagles coach Joe Kuharich takes over, walked out in front of 9,557 people at the Spectrum last night to sing with his group, The Ebonistics, and a most predictable thing happened. He was booed. Two songs later though, a most unpredictable thing happened. They cheered Rich Allen. They cheered him as warmly as they have ever cheered him for a game winning home run.”

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Wockenfussy

by Patrick Dubuque

‘Twas octval, and the pravish thrim
Did glate and glibble in the grome
All woolsy were the vitrenim
As the tegris wrast bethrome.

“Beware the Wockenfuss, my son!
The glove that claws, the cleats that slash!
Beware the corn-can-cut, and shun
The pronvistle mustache!”

He took the vorpal orb in hand:
Seeking with nails the laven stitch
And scrying he the fingers three
He gathered up to pitch.

A sinewed serpent’s coil, it stood
The Wockenfuss, with legs askew
It wiffled and glaved the winding wood
And ellipsed, as he threw.

One, two! And three! No contact he
The knuckleball went snicker-snack!
It spun in place, and in disgrace
It went galumphing back.

“Thou hast slain the Wockenfuss?
Hand me the sphere, my roogish gent.
Callooh! Callay! That’s all today.”
And to the showers he went.

‘Twas octval, and the pravish thrim
Did glate and gliddle in the grome
All woolsy were the vetrinem
As the tegris wrast bethrome.

Patrick Dubuque writes the blog The Playful Utopia.

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Bye, Bye, Berkman

By Stuart Shea (apologies to Dixon-Henderson)

Been an Astro for so long,
Got the gong,
Here’s your song:

Bye, bye, Berkman.

Master of the hard line drive,
You’re 35?
What’s that jive?

Bye, bye, Berkman.

When Ed Wade shipped your contract to the Yankees last July,
You didn’t know it wasn’t “come on back,” but just “goodbye.”

The hourglass is losing sand.
Will you land
In Japan?

Bye, bye, Berkman.