Friends, Yorkers, Yankeefans, lend me your ears; I come to bury A-Rod, not to praise him.

The games men lose in life live after them;
The wins are oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with A-Rod. 
The New York Post hath told you A-Rod was lecherous:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath A-Rod answer'd it. 

So here, under leave of Cashman and the rest -
For Cashman is an knowledgeable man;
So are they all, all knowledgeable men -
Come I to speak in A-Rod's funeral.

He was our slugger, famous and proud to us:
But Cashman says he became atrocious;
And Cashman is a knowledgeable man.
A-Rod hath brought eight post-seasons home to York,
Whose ransoms did the Steinbreners' coffers fill:
Did in one week A-Rod become atrocious?
When the whole team fanned, and the fans hath booed:
Atrociousness should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Cashman says he hath become atrocious;
And Cashman is a knowledgeable man.

You all did read in today's Lupica
That we twice presented A-Rod with an MVP,
And the ring he hath produced: was this atrociousness?
Yet Cashman says he hath become atrocious;
And, sure, he is a knowledgeable man.

I speak not to disprove what Cashman speaks,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love A-Rod once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to rage against him?
O judgment! thou art fled to Murdochian beasts,
And fans have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the dugout there with A-Rod,
And I must pause till it come back to me.