Whatever happened to baseball verse? Casey at the Bat, Tinker to Evers to Chance, Spahn and Sain and Pray for Rain. After that, a drought. An occasional " Leo Durocher Isn't Kosher" banner must fly in Chicago, but that would be about it. You'd think Jim Fregosi doesn't rhyme with cosi cosi, or something.
Could be, though, that there is a lot of verse around, blushing unseen, like mine. Two springs ago, when Tom Seaver, Jerry Koosman, Gary Gentry and Nolan Ryan of the Mets looked as though they were going to become the greatest starting rotation of all time, I wrote the following:
O Seaver and Koosman and Gentry and Ryan,
Each with a fastball as fierce as a lion,
They've all got such stuff that it eats you up whole,
And now even Ryan is gaining control.
Unfortunately, they did not become the greatest starting rotation of all time, so what demand there had been for a poem about them ebbed. A few years earlier I had written a couple of double dactyls:
Weekdays through knotholes his
Never, however, would
Do so on Sunday—his
Answer was no.
Iron Man McGinnity
Pitched doubleheaders and
Thus became famous.
These days such mound work is
Ford goes six innings and
Then becomes Ramos.
Unfortunately, not enough people appreciated oldtime Giant pitchers and the double dactyl simultaneously. Nor, as my own informal polls indicate, do they now. More people respond to limericks, to wit:
An owner of players, Charles Finley,
Now smiles, if at all, rather thinly.
McLain's on the farm,
And Blue is not warm,
And Jackson is not really frienly.
But I think what is really needed today is clerihews. The clerihew is named after Edmund Clerihew Bentley, who invented it. One of the first was:
Sir Christopher Wren
Said, "I am going to dine with some men.
If anybody calls
Say I am designing St. Paul's."