Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Friends, Romans, Yankiverse, lend me your ears: I come to bury Arod, not to praise him...

The double-plays men hit into live after them;
The doubles are oft interred with their bats;
So let it be with Arod. The noble Lupicans
Hath told you Arod was duplicitous:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Arod answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Lupica and the rest -
For Lupica is an honourable scribe;
So are they all, all honourable scribes -
Come I to speak in Arod's funeral.

He was a Yankee, faithful and just to Jeet:
But the Lupicans say he was duplicitous;
And Lupica is an honourable scribe.

He hath driven home many Yankee runners
Whose ransoms did the Steinbrenner coffers fill:
Did this in Arod seem duplicitous?

When that the hips hath barked, Arod still played:
Duplicity should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Lupica says he was duplicitous;
And the Lupicans are honourable scribes.

You all do remember the year 2009?
When the Lupicans blathered praise for his kingly crown,
When he hit .455 in the playoffs: was this duplicity?
Yet the Lupicans say he was duplicitous;
And, sure, the Lupicans are honourable scribes.

Did Arod jog out grounders, as did the spiteful Manny?
Did Arod whine when benched, as did so many before him?
Arod hath been convicted by a scrap of paper
That bears his name; Does he deserve defenders?
Yet the Lupicans say he was duplicitous;
And, as Manti Te’o showed us all,
The Lupicans are honourable scribes.

I speak not to disprove what Arod did,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, when he was hitting:
What cause withholds you then, to rip him now?

O sports bards! thou hath fled to ancient Rome,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Arod,
And I must pause till it come back to me.


Sayonara Kid said...

“Speak, strike, redress!”
Am I entreated to speak and strike?
O ESPN, I make thee promise,
If the redress will follow,
thou receivest thy full petition.

Roger B. Calistro said...

Alas, poor A-Rod, I knew him well...a fellow of less than infinite clutch, of most excellent fancies, your Hudsons, your Diazes, who hath borne him on their backs a thousand times and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at
it, spills over when three outs are nigh and here he stands with but one strike between him and our defeat. Here hung his popups barely kissed by bat at end of game I know not how oft. Where be your RBIs now? your Oscar gambols? your walk up songs? your flashes of merry power, that were wont to set the stadium on a roar? Not one
now, to mock your own aging?
Now get you to the SteinBoys chamber, and tell them, let
them paint an inch thick in their dusky ledgers, to this favour they must come; make them eat your contract, and laugh at that.
at that.

Etu Brutus said...


Marc Antony said...

We come to harry Arod not to praise him.

The Roaming Umperor said...

Thou may scour the Empire to its distant boundaries, but never shalt thou find sufficient mustard to cover that enormous hot dog.