With hopes that Jake Peavy was now only theirs.
"Aww, screw this!" I shouted, "There's no Christmas rhyme.
"The Yankees are dead! We have run out of time!
"More dead than the Astros! We're out of each game!"
And I whistled my Black List, and called them by name!
"Trade Hafner! Trade C.C.! then Joba and Hughesey!
"Trade Grandy! Trade Vernon! then Cashman's new floozy!
"To the West or the East! Do not wait until fall!
"Now trade away! Trade away! Trade away all!"
"Aww, damn it," I said and I didn't regret it,
For away my mind flew, like a shot off old Pettitte.
And I heard myself chime, as I shut out the light,
"Fuck off, Mister Selig! You too, A-Rod! G'night!"
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