The gambling bug

I like to gamble on the games; I like to spot the players

that perform outstandingly and become big payers.

I’ve got a system guaranteed to bring in mega-winnings.

It can forecast any score, whether goals or innings.

So trust me with your money and you’ll soon be in Jamaica

(yelling at my beach house “Give me back my dough, you faka!”)


When you wish upon a star

When you wish upon a star, you will have better odds

than if you go with DraftKings or all those other frauds.

The only daily fantasy involved is that you’ll win —

you’ll be lucky if you make it out with just your skin.

If you want to spend your dough on superstitious folly

why don’t you buy Bengali lights and celebrate Diwali?

Or flush your money down the drain and let the sewer rats

strut about with monocles and silky opera hats.

Or maybe you should spend it to insure some proper gains

by shopping very carefully for a toupee with brains.


Yogi Berra, Dead at 90

“You could look it up” the man said to Saint Peter at the gates.

“I played it hard but always fair, and never took rebates.”

Saint Peter sternly stared at him, then whispered in his ear

Yogi, will the Yankees win the Series this next year?”


The High School Coach

The high school coach is quite an oaf in sitcoms through the years;

he’s gross and rude and fat and smug, with naught between his ears.

But those whose lives have been transformed by coaches in their youth

know that a high school coach can bring both discipline and truth.

Like others who impact our lives for good, they are obscure —

as modestly they fade away once we become mature. 

from a story in the New York Times 


Playing Soccer on Artificial Turf

While men play soccer on the grass, the women players surf

on chemicals they use to make bright artificial turf.

It never needs a mowing nor is watering a chore;

but it don’t smell like nature and it makes their tootsies sore.

If women are considered only worth synthetic grass,

I think it’s time they dropped the ball and started kicking ass!

from a story in the New York Times


LeBron James: A Nursery Rhyme

Baron LeBron has been in such a snit;

for human companionship he isn’t fit!

He jumps on his Blatt, putting spurs where they hurt,

and yells at him loudly or else is quite curt.

He orders his team to march in and march out,

and if he’s ignored he goes into a pout.

He doesn’t do modest or humble or mild.

His tower of hubris is swift being piled.

Lookout, Baron James, or your scaffolding must

collapse on the ground and become tiny dust!



The Chicago Blackhawks win the Stanley Cup

The Blackhawks hold the Stanley Cup until 12 months are gone;  

and then they’ll have to fight for it again with puck and brawn. 

What makes these fellows so intent on speeding cross the frost, 

 for such a homely trophy — with broke shins and teeth all lost?

Lord Stanley’s Mug doth represent the enterprise of old,

when men with sticks upon the ice defied the gloomy cold.

Today the game is played indoors, with heat and ventilation;

the only cold comes from the beer fans drink in moderation. 




Hockey is a noble game; it’s played with stick and puck.

It takes a lot of good hard work, and a bit of luck.

Up in Minnesota they do play it constantly;

you might say that the North Star State is on a hockey spree!


Ice arenas dot the land like castles built of yore,

where eager fans eat cold hot dogs as they keep the score.

When it’s time for tournaments the competition’s savage.

Along with broken hearts there’s also broken teeth, on av’rage.



It takes a certain something to become a hockey player;

they have to be part dreamer and partly dragon-slayer.

He or she skates for the team and thirsts for victory.

A Klingon is a pussy cat compared to such esprit!

The Fall of a Hockey Idol.



The crowd grew restless as the team upon the ice did speed;

They weren’t very happy as the puck refused to heed

The skillful touch upon it that would guide it to its goal.

The padded skaters seemed about to lose complete control.


On the sidelines Sparky and his crew of icemen waited,

 Gripping shovels, leaning forward, breath already bated.

The shavings on the crease and slot were piling up in masses,

Slowing down the puck so that it moved like cold molasses.


Many long and weary years had Sparky and his band

Kept the ice smooth-shaven for the fans in hockeyland.

Heedless of advancing age or opposing team’s rude sneer,

Sparky’s dedication earned him nothing but free beer.


“We gotta get the shavings cleared” he said in consternation.

“Get ready, men, to follow me into the V Formation!”

The period was over and brave Sparky flew out splendid,

Determined to be done and gone before the red light ended.


But what was his amazement when the crowd tossed at him bricks,

Yelling in great unison: “We wanna see some chicks!”

“Bring back the Ice Girls that were wont in scanty dress to wriggle

On the ice with wanton eyes and such a charming giggle!”


Sparky finished up his job, then sadly skated back

To the locker room where his old face went white and slack.

The brazen girls were quickly placed beside the big Zamboni,

While Sparky left the building with naught but some sliced baloney.   

Based on a story from the New York Times

The New Viking Stadium — A Death Trap for Birds!

The New Vikings stadium
The New Vikings stadium

(Inspired by a story by Rochelle Olson.)

The news is horrific – O, have you not heard?

The Vikings arena is death to the bird!

Indigo buntings and migrating geese

Will hit the tall glass and then quickly decease.


Their carcasses strewn cross the path of the crowd

Will cause consternation and weeping out loud.

And all that is needed is glass of a type

That will keep away hummingbirds, robins and snipe.


It is pockmarked with holes to prevent passerines

From turning into feathered fowl smithereens.

But stadium advocates want no delay;

And so it’s the lark they will heedlessly slay!