by James Finn Garner
To diagnose the Yankees’ ills,
Don’t sacrifice a gopher
And scan for signs in its entrails —
The problem is the ofers.
Infante was tattooed, not tagged.
The call at second wasn’t kosher
But potential outrage only dragged
Down this lineup full of ofers.
Beyond JV, the Tiges ain’t sound —
Hell, they’re staying with their “closer”! —
But slow-pitch softball might confound
This Murderer’s Row of ofers.
Get ready for a shopping spree
When the season’s mercifully over.
A blind man’s dog throws up to see
This lousy bunch of ofers.
Published in Detroit Tigers, James Finn Garner, New York Yankees, Pure doggerel, Uncategorized | Link to this poem | 5 Comments