By James Finn Garner
With apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge
In Canada did Kluber’s clan
A stately baseball dome lay waste
Where Molson’s had in rivers ran
Through taverns ‘cross the frozen land
. Now left a sour taste
But once before had Cleveland’s Merritt
Begun a game, yet they could bear it
With Miller near to pull his load
The ball did Crisp and Carlos paste
A gonfalon triumph on the road
And two decades of grief erased.
by James Finn Garner
Tell me, has it come to this–
To be outhit by Coco Crisp?
To win outright the AL East,
Then be swept out like autumn leaves?
To watch my teammates flailing madly
And our hurlers piching badly?
Then step out for a curtain call
And have all Fenway watch me bawl?
I know I’ve won three rings, but still–
I’m not quite set to give up the thrill.
by the Village Elliott
With two losses where ivy’s on wall,
Giants back at home now must stand tall.
With Bumgarner to start,
Local rooters take heart
That Jints’ savior will answer the call.
by James Finn Garner
The drenching rains have parted
An autumn breeze comes in
Can they finish what they started?
Old doubts keep crawling in
But true joy reigns in Wrigleyville
The pre-game mood is bright
The halo ’round the Cubs there still
Undimmed til first pitch tonight.
by Hart Seely
We will moon him from the bleachers.
We will moon him from the stands.
He will think our butts strange creatures
From some weird exotic lands.
We will moon him from the boxes,
Where the richest are assigned.
Full autumnal equinoxes,
Fifty-thousand grand behinds.
We will moon him from the upper decks,
Way up there in the sky,
He’ll see fifty-thousand hammy specks,
Each moonbeam shouting, “Bye!”
We’ll moon Big Papi all the night,
Show all our nooks and crannies.
Into his brain we’ll burn the sight
Of fifty thousand fannies.
We will moon him in the lower tiers,
Where cheeks doth shine quite proudly,
We’ll moon him as we sip our beers,
And often, farting loudly.
We will go down in the hist’ry book,
Our tickets will be keepsakes!
We’ll never know a greater look
Than fifty-thousand beefcakes.
We’ll moon him at that certain time,
When Papi waves, “Goodbye now.”
No cop shall charge us with a crime,
He’ll merely wink an eyebrow.
We’ll moon him for posterity!
To show the world what’s right,
Though some will cry, “Vulgarity!”
They’ll know we won the night.
O, it shall be one glorious scene!
A gathering of the masses!
No greater use shall e’er have been,
For fifty-thousand asses.
For more on the drive to moon David Ortiz in his final appearance at Yankee Stadium tonight, go to Hart’s website, It is High, It is Far, It is . . . caught.
More information on this historic event is also at MoonBigPapi.com.