by Michael X. Ferraro
Giancarlo, when I approached,
Via soft-serve toss of a coach
I foolishly said, “Let’s be friends!”
But instead I now have the bends.
As I rocket o’er Target Field,
McCutcheon gasps and Gordon squealed.
My path now is parabolic
Forget ‘roids– are you bionic?
Mr. Stanton, I hold no grudge.
I’m a baseball, not a judge.
The fans swoon like they’ve seen Kirby
as I leave this Home Run Derby.
Published in History, Miami Marlins, Players, Pure doggerel, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | No Comments