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.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment