The Dreaded Eighth

by Caleb Wiley

The time is here that we’ve all come to dread,
The worst possible inning if you root for the Red.
It makes leads disappear, because no lead is safe
When our bullpen appears in the inning called eighth.

No lead is safe, no lead is secure
When our bulls begin spreading their style of manure,
So when you’re done stretching from inning number seven,
Never forget that they’re not sent from heaven.

When the seventh is over you may start to think,
“What now shall we do? Let’s just start to drink.”
BOHICA, my friends, will be with us soon,
And God help us all if we have a full moon.

So when that time is nigh and we have much to fear,
Pray very hard, then reach for more beer.
Please don’t do something to make us spew hate
When the Reds take the field in the Dreaded Eighth.

Posted 7/27/07


Published in Cincinnati Reds, Pure doggerel | Link to this poem | No Comments

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