Where has she been all my life?
'Twas a night in the offseason, and all through the land,
Not a creature was sitting in the stadium stands.
The stirrups still hang by the lockers with care,
In the hopes that opening day soon would be there.
Cashman was nestled by hot stove (still heating),
While visions on the Post showed Jeter (still eating).
And Mo in his rehab, and Arod’s aging bones,
Make the upcoming season a cistern of unknowns.
When out in cyberspace there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from football mode to see what was the matter,
Away to the internet I flew like a banshee,
Opened up Firefox and googled “new Yankees.”
The mood on the blogs of the new-written posts,
Was resignation at best and murderous at most.
What to my wondering eyes came upon,
Was news of acquiring Beezlebub’s spawn.
An old Boston fielder, so much of a d*ck,
I knew in a moment this must be a trick.
More preternatural than picklebacks, this must be a fluke.
Now joining the Yankees is none other than Youk.
“Now Andy! Now Pineda! Now D-Rob and CC!
On, Texeira! On Cano! On Gardner and Cervelli!
To the top of division, to the top of the east,
You’ll have to make nice with this ex-Red Sux beast.”
As stomachs that turn before taking the stage,
I felt sick and uneasy, and somewhat enraged.
His bellicose stance compares to rhinos when mating,
Or Soda Popinkski-- it all compounds my hating.
And then in a twinkling, I read on the twitter,
The hemming and hawing over our new 3B hitter.
As I drew in my breath, and was taking it in,
I tried to envision when baseball begins:
Youk’s all dressed in pinstripes, from head to his foot.
And his helmet’s all tarnished, with pinetar and soot.
Wagging his bat, parallel to the dirt,
Like some roided up yoga he’s trying to exert.
His eyes—so depraved! His hair—doesn't exist!
His goatee is like dead moss, his brow—homo habilis.
His skull cap of a head is puffed up like toadstool,
And the beard of his chin makes him all the more a fool.
The wad of his dip once held tight in his cheek,
Distended his jaw and made him look like a freak.
He has a broad frame, and was called “roly poly,”
And laughs like the Pinnochio villain, Stromboli.
He’s not a Greek god, he’s not even Greek,
He’s just a Moneyball prototype, who’s already peaked.
A high and in fastball will cause him to riot,
And not all the tea in China could keep his a** quiet.
I’ll speak not a word when he first dons the stripes,
When opening against Boston (hashtag media hype).
And raising his finger may work in Fenway,
But you’re a Yankee now, b*tch. So shut up and play.
He sprung at the deal, to the Sox said adieu,
Now we wait out the winter, for the season anew.
But hear me exclaim, ‘fore I cap off this prate:
“Happy Holidays to all, and to Youk: pull your weight!”