by James Finn Garner
Was expecting a big night
On his home field
With the rest of the Mets concealed.
Not too long ago
Was the picture of Yankee youth.
Now even he is long in the tooth.
If he were a flavor of gelado,
Would be, I’d bet,
Orioles black-and-orange sherbet.
On the days the smelt ran
Would’ve rather been at the lake fishing
Than at the plate swishing.
Is young, hearty and hale.
It’s the White Sox’s bats
That cripple his stats.
Published in Baltimore Orioles, Chicago White Sox, History, James Finn Garner, New York Mets, New York Yankees, Players, Pure doggerel, St. Louis Cardinals | Link to this poem | No Comments