by HoraceClarke66
To the outfield his pop flies go
Weak as kittens, soft and slow.
Another out, a great big fizz-o,
He’s hitting even less than Rizzo.
This team is through. Short days ago
They played like they had somewhere to go.
Hit, and sometimes pitched, and now they doze
As Joey goes.
Forget this bunch of woeful schmos,
They’re not the heirs of Mick’s or Mo’s.
The torch; be ours to hold it high,
Pay no mind to the next Coops lie.
There will be teams to end these woes
Once Joey goes.
This poem originally appeared in the Yankee blog, It Is High, It Is Far, It Is….caught.