by Susan Petrone
There’s something I want to talk about but broach with apprehension,
For if you state the obvious, the Jinx will pay attention.
There is no monster in Lake Erie, of that you can be sure
But beware the Jinx who dwells within the salt mines off the shore.
The Cleveland Jinx is green and chunky with breath like stale burritos.
He wears flip-flops and a beer-stained jersey from Rocky Colavito.
When the team is doing poorly, you won’t see the Jinx,
There’s no fun in messing with a team that really stinks.
But when the Tribe shows signs of life and fans begin to hope,
The Jinx’s one-word answer is a loud, resounding “Nope.”
He’ll fiddle with the strike zone, the pine tar, or a mitt
And anything he thinks will stop a run-scoring base hit.
The Jinx can’t help it, it’s his job to purloin a winning streak
He lives upon our broken dreams and random bursts of pique.
So how does the Tribe fare? Of that of which we must not speak.
All that I can safely say is it’s been a hell of a good week.
Susan Patrone blogs about the Tribe at It’s Pronounced Lajaway.
Published in Cleveland Indians, Fans, History, Pure doggerel | Link to this poem | 2 Comments