by Millie Bovich
The Astros and the Dodgers were the Hatfields and McCoys,
And they battled on for seven games, those wild and scrappy boys.
And as the dust is settling with the Astros waiting rings,
The crowd erupts with cheering and the “you know” lady sings.
Now the well-worn mitts are on the shelf, the champagne warm and flat,
And “Astros Champs” emblazoned is on every this and that.
The bats are finally all in racks, the balls are all in bags,
The uniforms are cleaned and pressed, their player names on tags.
The scoreboard shows no numbers, the stats are all in books,
The vendors too have closed up shop, their aprons hang from hooks.
The managers are calm once more, the cleaned-up shoes in rows.
The game’s America’s pastime, that fact no one can oppose.
The towels are all washed and dried, the showers only drip,
The bat boys are all back in school, the umpires hear no lip.
The season’s been exciting, we’ve been taken to new heights
And will the last one out of the locker room, please — turn off — the lights!