Altuve went yard
And Springer hit hard
And Beltran finished with power
The Sox, they were smote
It was all that she wrote
And they tossed their poor skipper over
And all that remains
Are the faces and the names
Of their fans now sullen and sober
The Tribe and the Cubs
Have both have had their flubs
And even the Yankees have blown some
But nobody chokes
Like those Boston folks
The all-time major-league crumb-bum
In a musty old park
In the Boston dark
They mourn their Sox as ever
The church bell chimed
And it rang twenty-five times
For each man on the greatest team ever
The legend lives on
From the Bambino on down
Of the team that folds like a patsy
The Fens it said
Always throws up its dead
When the winds of November come early,
This parody originally appeared on the Yankees blog, It is High, It is Far, It is . . . caught.