by Tim McClure
100 will soon be here,
‘08 to ‘08 we do fear,
A ‘45 goat or ‘69 cat,
Durham’s glove or a fan’s catch,
Bone the curse, don’t wait for next year!
Some say with a goat we were cursed,
Some say it’s an error at first,
Black cats with the Mets,
Or Bartman’s bad catch–
I fear the Cubs are the worst.
The series I wish they could win,
For naught now it seems like a sin,
They’ve tried for so long,
It’s the same old song,
Who’ll ever see it, my kin?
They’ve won! I can’t believe it!
In the ninth with a home run hit!
We’ve waited so long,
The field is a throng,
I just woke up… Oh S**t!
The Red Sox did it four years ago,
The White Sox were next in line to glow,
We thought we were next,
Our muscles were flexed,
But our Cubs missed their turn in the show.
There’s a dream that’s been dreamt for awhile,
That we’d smoke the Cardinals with style.
We’d tromp ’em real good,
Like we know we should.
This Cub’s dream isn’t wicked nor vile.
There was an old team called the Cubs,
Who for years have looked just like subs.
They’ve tried to get better,
But have seemed in fetters,
‘Cause the curse has left all those flubs.
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