To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold the playoffs in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
A bullpen fill'd with doves and pigeons
Gives up runs thru' all its regions.
A boat sunk at its master's buoy
Predicts the ruin of our Matsui.
Each outgrowth of Giambi hair
A fibre from the brain does tear.
With Joba wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The ARod clipt and arm'd for fight
Hopes pitcher hurls from left, not right.
Every Pudge and Damon howl
Sends to hell a redsock soul.
The bat that flits at close of eve
Has kill't the fans that won't believe.
The team that calls upon tonight
Shall send the loser home in fright.