by Hilary Barta, assisted by Sid Yiddish
In the winter they swarm to Caracas
Where the fans, true to form, shake maracas
. Down there all the players
. Don’t wear many layers
As the sun keeps them warm in the tuchas.
Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
There was a first baseman named Easter
Who owned a considerable keester
A homer would flex ass
Till the fans south of Texas
Would holler óle, gringo meester!
[I know, it’s awful]
In baseball the fan often finds
Behavior of manly-man kinds
To favor a guy
For a play or good try
The players will pat their behind.
They say that the size of his doopa
is what made C. Fielder so soopah
His great big caboose
gave Cecil a boost
He even could outswing Gene Krupa
I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
When he plopped at the plate in his stance
Fans dropped what they ate for a glance
His huge derriere
Caused viewers to stare
When the bottom popped out from his pants.
To the plate he would swagger and strut
With his heel he would dig out a rut
As his elbows extend
At the waist he would bend
And his over-sized buttocks would jut.
The teams who oppose him all fear
Prince Fielder’s imposing big rear
When he goes in a slide
He’ll expose his back-side,
And it seems like it grows coming near.
In batter’s box, he can’t get back so much
despite the fact that he does practice such
food intake control
It’s just, bless my soul,
he’s got a big gluteus maximus
And…
When Fielder a fastball attacks
He wields not a bat but an axe
With his go-for-broke chops
Hitting homers he’s tops
And his seat is the gluteus max.
No question, the punk was quite drunk
He said “You got junk in your trunk!”
So tired of this jazz
He grabbed the kid’s ‘nads
That punk lost a chunk from his spunk
No question, the punk was quite drunk
He said “You got junk in your trunk!”
So tired of this jazz
He grabbed the kid’s ‘nads
That punk lost a chunk of his spunk
It seems in our bootie-themed verse
We’ve taken a route for the worse
For Cecil to fit
His seat for a sit
To a chair he must scoot in reverse.
Our rhyming is lacking in class
The critics dismiss it en masse
“A writer who spends
Their time on such ends
Has made of themselves quite an ass.”
Prince Fielder supplies lots of runs
And his keister’s surmised to be tons
With this summer sensation
Is there some correlation
‘Tween his yield and the size of his buns?
Please forgive me, C Fielder fans. I mixed up our subject Cecil with his son Prince, the next generation of the Fielder family.
You ass!
Yes. And boy, is my as–I mean, face red!
While taking my famed batting stance
For the fastball of short Bobby Schantz
I’d close both my eyes
And ignore his odd size
And hope not to soil my pants.