by Hart Seely
Steve Balboni at the plate,
Dave Collins really swings the bat.
Juan Espino? He’ll be great!
Roy Smalley fields just like a cat!
This Yankee team, remember when?
Those future talents, to be found.
It’s nineteen-eighty-two again!
And Dave LaRouche is on the mound.
Here’s Tommy John, age thirty-nine.
And Lee Mazzilli, batting first,
Is there, by chance, a stronger wine?
I’ve grown a Bobby Meacham thirst.
Curt Kaufman’s warming in the pen,
Another save shall not be blown.
It’s nineteen-eighty-two again,
Now batting, catcher Rick Cerone.
It’s only May; we’ll start anew,
We really can’t be in such shambles.
We’ve Jeter, ARod, Swisher, too.
Not Hobsons, Dents and Oscar Gambles.
Alas, I feel intense new fears.
It’s twenty-twelve… or am I wrong?
If eighty-two, I need some beers,
The next Depression’s twelve years long.
Please provide some hope to kids like Hart Seely, and purchase his new book, The Juju Rules: Or How to Win Baseball Games from Your Couch.
Published in Fans, History, New York Yankees, Pure doggerel | Link to this poem | 2 Comments