The Yankee Contracts Poem

Three more years of A-Rod,

Each, twenty million-plus.

Three more years of C.C.,

Blown tires on the bus.

Six more years of Ellsb’ry,

Just where did we go wrong?

And two more years of Beltran...

I will not live that long.

Two more years, Teixeira,

McCann, until ’18.

Gardner through the following year,

By then, I'll have no spleen.

We’ll play no one at shortstop.

Our system's hit the wall.

And two more years of Beltran...

Who cannot throw the ball.

Six more years, Tanaka.

Already, looking frail.

And Prado for another two.

By then, we'll own Chris Sale.

We punted in the bidding,

And so jettisoned Cano.

For two more years of Beltran...

Dear God, please let me go!

Our Father, up in heaven,

Where contracts loom so large,

Two hundred million buys a boat

That steers just like a barge.

We’re dead throughout the order,

A slugger? No, not one!

With two more years of Beltran...

God, wake me when it’s done.