Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Will many a tomato
(Or do you say to-mah-to)
Be tossed at non-hustling
Manny Machado?
Not that he will care
About causin’ such ranklin’
He can wipe off the stains
With Benjamin Franklins
Or is S.D. so chill
That they”ll accept slack
As long as home runs
He steadily jacks?
The AL crown’s on the line
A years-, nay, decades-long quest
Requires an ump with judgment fine
. …it’s Joe West.
Baseball’s a game of inches
Tension leaves everyone stressed
Who’s the ace who decides the tight pinches?
. …it’s Joe West.
A ball is hit past the outfield!
Will a player or spectator wrest
The ball free? Who’s got his eagle eye peeled?
. …it’s Joe West.
An assessor of vague situa-
Tions, a sage with acuity blessed
Contradicted by every last replay
. …it’s Joe West.
You crowded stadiums in April;
No matter where you were–all was equal:
The decibel of expectation outweighed price,
And everyone–all of you–sat alike
In a Spring glow of your baseball dream
(A winner this year, being common theme).
And now … and now it’s September.
Meaningless games dot the calendar.
Flurry of trades, of sure-fire acquisitions–
Are you ready for October’s postseason?
Is your dream secure in a playoff berth?
(Or are you saying “Next year!” for all it’s worth?)
With apologies to Sir Elton John.
Hey fans, park it on the sofa,
The Yanks are playin’ at home
But you might as well watch Oprah.
They’re servin’ up the fatted calf tonight
Don’t stick around
You’re gonna see balls flyin’
All around the pound.
Surrender all hope, ain’t you seen him yet?
Oh, but he’s so damned sad—
S-S-Sonny sends regrets.
Oh, he looks scared and he’s just awful
Oh, Sonny he’s truly bad.
He’s got no real fastball,
Stuff don’t break at all,
He made some 19-year-old look like Vla-a-a-ad
S-S-Sonny sends regrets.
Hey, Coops, give up on this phe-nom.
We know that you’re blinded
But it’s like tryna win Viet-nam.
Guess who’s McNamara in this scenario?
He wasn’t worth Fowler or Mate-o.
We shall survive but he needs to be gone.
Oh, Cashy, why is it you can’t see that yet?
Oh, but he’s so damned scared!
S-S-Sonny sends regrets.
Sonny, Sonny, Sonny, Sonny
Sonny, Sonny, Sonny, Sonny to the Mets . . .
Originally appeared on the Yankee blog, It Is High, It Is Far, It Is . . . caught.