By Stuart Shea

Chocolate-dipped in a stale sugar cone,
The Rockies emit a miserable moan.

Last year the Series a reachable goal,
This year, last place and 12 games in the hole.

Their bats are as flabby as Jell-O congealed,
With pitching you’d find on a Little League field.

Where’s Tulo? He’s hurt, batting .152,
And Brad Hawpe’s bat has a case of the flu,

The offense an orange without any juice–
In a ballpark like Coors, there’s just no excuse.
Their 2007 pitchers a challenging foe,
But two thousand eight is a sick horror show.

Ubaldo Jimenez is just 1 and 6,
Jeff Francis ain’t fooling no one with his tricks.

Kip Wells, Micah Bowie, and–ugh–Glendon Rusch
Just prove that this pitching staff hasn’t got much.

What’s in a year? What will the team do?
I’m sure they’ll get better–in a season or two.

Posted 6/7/08 

Published in Stu Shea, Colorado Rockies, Pure doggerel, Players | Link to this poem |