by Hilary Barta
The haunt of Octobers of olde,
The field named for Wrigley’s grown cold,
Faint echoes from bats
Of men who wear spats
Who late in the season don’t fold.
This season for Cubbies is toast.
As always, they’re missing the “post”.
There’s curses and theories
Why Cubs won’t host series.
They ought to just give up the ghost.
Each year the Cubs try to remold,
Each year the fan’s hope is fool’s gold,
But millionaire fans
Hatch bankruptcy plans:
The team to a diehard’s been sold.
Well known as a comic artist, Hilary Barta also runs the terrific site Limerwrecks, featuring limericks on swamp monsters, film noir, comic books, and pop culture. Its daily content is a must-read.
Published in Ballparks, Chicago Cubs, Chicago Cubs, Fans, History, Limerick | Link to this poem | No Comments