In playoff time
There is a man;
There is a man;
We all wish we
Could be'im.
Could be'im.
His name, of course,
Is Chad Gaudin,
Is Chad Gaudin,
And we may
Never see'im.
Never see'im.
It's feared that if
We try his hand,
He'll burst
Like a tomato,
On this great pen,
Our Chad Gaudin,
Sits right behind
Alfredo.
We try his hand,
He'll burst
Like a tomato,
On this great pen,
Our Chad Gaudin,
Sits right behind
Alfredo.
We won't see him
In playoff land,
In playoff land,
For losing or
For winning.
For winning.
For it appears
Poor Chad Gaudin,
Poor Chad Gaudin,
Will never see
One inning.
One inning.
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2 comments:
Still down for the old school baseball poems. They used to be in the paper everyday about 100 years ago.
Okay, Mr. Dukes, I'm stealing that one again for Bardball.
(And Rob A -- this is a subtle plug for my other site, where we have baseball poetry every day -- bardball.com.)
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