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.
Published in Ballparks, Boston Red Sox, Fans, New York Yankees, Pure doggerel, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 2 Comments