by James Finn Garner
Signing up for another hitch
To field a nine to hit and pitch
My squad last year just up and died
Reckless with my baseball pride
Where’s my Mantle off the farm?
My rotation always finds bum arms
And my whizbang keystone pair
Can muster neither clue nor prayer
. In my fog all the stats
. Become an acronym loop
. WHIP, FIP, GO/AO, BABIP–
. Wait, isn’t BABIP Korean soup?
Every morning, I link in,
Despite my trades, always sinking.
Why should I let it get me down?
Someone’s gotta be the Browns.
